ARDEN   MASSITER 


ARDEN    MASSITER 


BY 

DR.  WILLIAM  BARRY 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  NEW  ANTIGONE,"  "  THE  TWO  STANDARDS,"  ETC. 


'  Lo,  the  dim  choir  that  haunts  this  palace  high, 
Chanting  with  one  accord  no  music  sweet, — 
Ill-omened,  rather, —  since,  to  make  them  bold, 
They  quaff,  the  Sister- Furies,  blood  of  man 
Within  these  halls,  and  will  not  be  sent  forth; 
But  feasting  here,  a  troop  of  revelers, 
The  doom  of  murder  from  of  old  they  sing." 

AESCHYLUS,  Agamemnon 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1900 


Copyright,  1900,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


THE  DEVINNE  PRESS. 


IN 

AFFECTIONATE    REMEMBRANCE 
OF 

LETITIA  MARGERY  SCOTT, 
NOVEMBER  30,  1899. 


213'4359 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 
A  DEAD  MAN'S  SHADOW 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  To  LAURA  WINWOOD,  SPINSTER,  AT  MARINDEN  GRANGE          i 
II.  CARDINAL  AND  UTOPIAN  .  .  .  .13 

III.  THE  VIEW  FROM  MONTORIO         .  .  .  .24 

IV.  WHO  LOSES  PAYS  .....        35 
V.  UDOLPHO               ......        52 

VI.  SICILIANS  DANCING  .....  68 

VII.  REQUIEM  ^ETERNAM  .....  79 

VIII.  IN  A  GLASS  DARKLY  .....  96 

IX.  A  HUNTING-PIECE  ,  .  .  .  .no 

BOOK  II 

IN   THE   UNDER-WORLD 

X.  LORDS  OF  MISRULE  .  .  .  .  .123 

XI.  Two  NOCTURNES  IN  ROME          .  .  .  .139 

XII.  Dis  MANIBUS         ......       154 

XIII.  MY  CONFESSION     .  .  .  .  .  .165 

XIV.  TEMPEST     .......       181 

XV.  MONTE  MAJELLA  .  .  .  .  .  .193 


viii  CONTENTS 

BOOK  III 
TIBERIO   SFORZA 

CHAP.  PAGE 

XVI.  THE  LEGEND  OF  ROCCAFORTE            .       •    .           .  207 

XVII.  I  RETURN  FROM  THE  SOUTH              .           .           .  226 

XVIII.  THE  GREEK  THEATER  AT  TUSCULUM             .           .  242 

XIX.  MY  LAST  DAY  IN  UDOLPHO   ....  251 

XX.  I  TAKE  SANCTUARY     .....  265 

XXI.  SAN  PIETRO  AT  MIDNIGHT     ....  278 

BOOK  IV 
THE  SUN  GOES  DOWN 

XXII.  INSURRECTION              .....  297 

XXIII.  ASCANIO  THE  PAGE      .           .           .           .  315 

XXIV.  AMONG  THE  VINEYARDS          .           .           .           .  331 
XXV.  THE  THEBAN  BROTHERS         ....  346 

XXVI.  COSTANZA         ......  360 

XXVII.  ILIA  SUPREMA  DIES    .           .           .           .           .  371 

XXVIII.  MYRTLE,  RUE,  AND  CYPRESS   .  .  .  .383 


BOOK  I 

A   DEAD   MAN'S   SHADOW 


ARDEN   MASSITER 


CHAPTER  I 

TO  LAURA  WINWOOD,  SPINSTER,  AT  MARINDEN 
GRANGE 

DO  you  remember,  Madonna  Laura,  how  in  the 
golden  years  a  traveler  from  the  orchard-groves 
of  Worcestershire  had  been  calling  on  your  namesake, 
the  dead,  the  famous,  at  Vaucluse?  And  how,  in 
colors  stolen  from  Petrarch's  sonnets,  he  painted  for 
you  the  tender  green  wilderness  and,  as  you  told  him 
by  and  by,  strangely  stirred  your  heart,  until  you  could 
have  envied  the  pale  phantom  which  is  haunting  those 
rocks?  I  remember,  at  all  events.  It  was  early  spring 
in  Provence;  with  me,  too,  it  was  spring,  and  I  re- 
joiced in  my  youth.  Perhaps,  on  that  day  of  wistful 
sunshine,  I  felt  more  deeply  touched  by  the  exquisite 
wild  plants  trailing  down  from  the  crags,  and  the  anem- 
ones sprinkling  with  light  a  mossy  meadow  steeped 
in  dews,  than  by  all  Messer  Francesco's  embroideries. 
Yet  his  verses  rang  within  me,  "  like  fairy  bells  on  the 
robe  of  silence  "  ;  and  where  would  Vaucluse  be  for  any 
of  us  had  Petrarch  never  written?  Over  all  the  hun- 
i  i 


2  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

dreds  of  miles  as  I  came  through  France,  that  magic 
fountain,  and  Laura,  and  her  poet-lover,  drew  me  on. 
A  second  time  I  was  there,  not  long  ago,  in  the 
autumn.  Many  things  had  changed — you  and  I,  and 
the  golden  years,  which  had  fallen  like  withered  leaves 
under  my  feet.  But  the  music  of  the  sonnets  was  im- 
mortal and  rang  within  me  still. 

I  am  going  to  tell  you  of  another  journey  and  its 
consequences.  You  are  aware  that  I  was  leaving  Eng- 
land ;  but  you  never  heard  of  the  strange  old  place  at 
which  I  write — Roccaforte,  in  the  Monti  Lepini,  no 
great  distance  from  Rome,  as  the  train  reckons  it,  but 
five  hundred  years  away  from  Shakspere's  Cliff. 
Years?  Aye,  my  dear  cousin  and  pupil,  years!  Behold 
the  revoke,  Arden,  clean  escaped  out  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  For  which  the  gods  be  thanked. 

Shall  I  sketch  the  scene,  before  I  explain  by  what  an 
odd  course  of  accidents  I  have  been  led  into  the  Castle 
of  Udolpho?  "Send  us  a  photograph,"  says  Miss 
Dalton,  looking  up  from  her  knitting  and  her  easy- 
chair.  Not  I.  These  things  cannot  be  fixed  down  on 
a  square  of  gelatin  by  the  sun,  which  sees  nothing  as 
we  see  it.  Always  Petrarch  must  mix  his  feeling  with 
the  landscape  or  it  has  no  charm.  You  want  Rocca- 
forte as  a  page  of  my  life,  n'est-ce  pas?  Well,  to  begin 
with,  take  this  from  me.  In  spite  of  all  the  prose,  the 
guide-books,  the  tourists  that  have  made  Italy  their 
hunting-ground,  Anne  Radcliffe  would  still  find  her 
ghostly  castle  in  the  folds  of  the  Apennines.  Judge 
for  yourself  after  my  tale. 

I  am  in  a  vast,  bare,  gloomy  chamber,  the  walls  a 
succession  of  faded  frescos,  like  tapestry  which  rains 
have  washed  out  of  half  its  color — their  subject,  Helen 
of  Troy,  or  Paris  and  the  golden  apple,  one  of  those 
confused,  interminable  histories  that  set  you  dreaming 
as  soon  as  you  clap  eyes  on  them.  Above,  a  ceiling  in 


CIIVP.  L]  TO  LAURA  WINWOOD  3 

distemper — the  Burning  of  Ilium — a  dusky  red,  through 
which  temples  loom  large,  and  the  wild  figure  of  Cas- 
sandra is  struggling  with  Ajax,  son  of  Oileus,  who  blazes 
in  silver  armor  like  a  star,  the  single  radiant  point 
among  clouds  and  dull  fires.  When  I  was  falling  asleep 
last  night,  and  the  new  moon  looked  in  at  my  window, 
this  young  soldier  glared  down  upon  me,  in  uncanny 
white,  and  I  could  swear  he  threatened  me.  Remark- 
able how  one  gives  in  to  fancy,  acting  one's  own  part, 
in  a  house  like  Roccaforte !  Imagination  is  wound  up 
here  to  its  peculiar  key,  and  I  am  more  than  three 
fourths  of  a  superstitious  heathen  already. 

I  did  not  say  it  was  a  comfortable  room.  Blot  out 
the  word  comfort  when  you  write  of  the  Monti  Lepini. 
No  curtains  to  the  windows,  no  snug  corners,  no  easy- 
chairs,  no  books  — nothing  but  a  huge,  baronial  edifice 
of  a  bed,  standing  in  state  upon  a  dais ;  a  pair  of  inlaid 
marble  tables,  with  candelabra  in  gilt  wood  for  their 
adornment;  and  stiff-backed  Florentine  chairs.  The 
floor  is  without  a  carpet;  the  oaken  door,  which  ex- 
hibits a  variety  of  patched  colors  and  gilt  moldings, 
has  no  lock,  but  closes  with  a  hasp.  And  the  cold  Li- 
beccio — for  it  is  chill  as  an  English  east  wind  up  here 
to-day — blows  in  from  every  side  at  once,  as  if  the 
massive  limestone  walls  and  the  stucco,  on  their  inner 
surface  were  Japanese  oiled  paper.  I  have  to  wrap 
myself  in  a  cloak,  though  a  wood-fire  is  burning  on 
the  immense  hearth.  Ser  Angelo,  the  steward — a 
grave,  dark  man,  reminding  me  of  some  Englishmen 
by  his  taciturn  civility — has  given  me  a  scaldino,  with 
dusty  charcoal  in  it,  to  warm  my  paralyzed  fingers; 
and  I  fancy  myself  a  regular  old  witch  as  I  bend  over 
it.  No,  please,  not  a  word  about  comfort.  In  the 
Middle  Ages  they  never  had  any,  and  Roccaforte  is 
still  at  the  year  1370 — the  Pope  away  at  Avignon, 
Rome  a  desolation,  and  the  Signer  Prince  Orazio  So- 


4  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

relli  master  on  his  own  mountain,  though,  I  dare  say, 
as  poor  in  cash  as  a  Highland  chief  when  cattle-lifting 
was  honorable  and  great  men  lived  by  the  strong  hand. 

I  look  out  from  one  of  my  windows — it  opens  to  the 
floor  and  has  a  wrought-iron  balcony  hanging  to  its 
edges  like  a  bird's  nest.  Below,  at  a  fearful  distance, 
is  a  ravine,  watered  by  tumbling  rivulets,  choked  with 
ilex  and  chestnut,  the  tops  of  which  are  shivering  and 
complaining — a  sea  of  green  waves,  over  it  now  and 
then  the  sunshine  glancing  merrily.  On  my  right, 
high  fantastic  hills,  in  their  outline  strangely  irregular, 
with  here  and  there  a  screen  of  stone-pines,  desolate 
beyond  imagination.  It  is  a  sullen  sky  that  lies 
couchant  on  the  heights.  By  going  to  the  angle  of  the 
balcony  and  twisting  my  neck  round,  I  catch  glimpses 
of  the  open  country — olive-groves,  corn-fields  in  stubble, 
cane-brakes,  and  a  white  village  or  two  on  the  distant 
hillsides.  There  are  lovely  hanging  mists  of  rain,  shot 
through  in  places  by  the  floating  and  uncertain  sun, 
but  even  where  they  touch  the  white  houses  I  feel  that 
the  lines  are  distinct,  not  magically  shaded  as  in  our 
Northern  landscapes.  The  mystery  which  takes  us 
children  of  the  cloud  hides  within  this  painted  cavern 
of  a  fortress,  or  down  among  the  tall  trees  in  the  ra- 
vine. Elsewhere,  the  shapes  of  things  are  palpable 
and  their  measure  is  their  beauty.  Think  of  Francia 
or  Fra  Bartolommeo,  not  of  Turner,  when  you  picture 
these  Volscian  Hills,  even  with  a  storm  rising  over 
them. 

Pass  to  the  other  window — what  can  we  see?  A 
sheer  wall  of  limestone ;  below  it,  a  narrow  ledge  with 
a  parapet  built  into  its  substance ;  and  there  is  visible 
a  corner  of  the  wind-swept,  rough-paved,  hard-looking 
piazza,  where  it  mounts  toward  the  ugly  church  of  San 
Romito,  with  its  forlorn  pediment  and  an  expression  in 
every  stone  of  intense  weariness.  Why  do  Italians 


CHAP.  L]  TO  LAURA  WINWOOD  5 

care  so  little  to  make  the  outside  of  their  churches  at- 
tractive?0 San  Romito  is  a  pretentious  barn  ;  yet  there 
are  treasures  within.  I  shall  be  shown  them  on  the 
Festa.  But  I  want  a  church  to  tell  me  that  it  is  a 
shrine  or  a  sanctuary.  This  tells  me  only  the  grim 
chronicle  of  its  empty  days  and  its  village  mostly 
asleep.  Ah,  there  is  the  lightning!  Storm  coming 
up  swiftly  from  the  sea,  across  the  Pontine  Marshes, 
and  along  these  gullies,  which  have  begun  to  roar  with 
its  mighty  voice — organ-pipes  of  a  swelling  and  tumul- 
tuous music.  Another  flash — I  had  better  close  my 
windows. 

I  shut  them  with  some  difficulty,  by  turning  long 
iron  rods  into  badly  fitting  sockets.  The  rain  dashes 
against  them,  falls  down  the  gigantic  chimney,  makes 
the  half-burnt  logs  crackle  and  hiss,  strikes  a  million 
sparkling  notes  out  of  leaves  and  branches  in  the  ravine 
below;  and  the  lightning  comes  in  sulphur  gleams — 
that  blinding,  creamy  yellow  which  the  sunflower  has 
caught.  Thunder  above  and  around;  but  Roccaforte 
lets  it  rumble  its  bellyful.  I  hear  doors  banging  vio- 
lently in  the  distance,  and  that  is  all.  Not  a  soul  will 
come  up  here.  The  Prince  has  ridden  off  to  Cartena ; 
he  will  get  drenched  to  the  skin,  which  for  a  man  of 
near  seventy  should  be  dangerous.  But  what  will  he 
mind  ?  Not  a  rush,  if  he  is  the  piece  of  granite  I  take 
him  to  be.  Don  Gaetano  has  gone  with  him.  And  I 
shall  certainly  not  be  asked  to  sit  in  the  Great  Hall  and 
amuse  Donna  Costanza;  not  though  her  aunt  Anas- 
tagia  should  be  there  to  act  the  duenna,  chaperon, 
guardian,  or  whatever  they  call  it  in  Central  Italy.  So 
now,  my  dear  Laura,  I  may  relate  how  I  come  to  be 
the  guest  of  these  fierce  antediluvians.  The  storm 
shall  be  my  accompaniment. 

When  I  think  of  it,  the  adventure  is  laughable — in 
my  case  of  all  men.  I  have  got  into  a  scrape,  started 


6  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BooK  I. 

a  vendetta,  and  am  in  a  sort  of  hiding  from  the  police, 
or  the  noble  order  of  assassins — I  hardly  know  which. 
They  used  to  be  much  the  same  in  the  good  old  days — 
mais  nous  avons  change  tout  cela.  The  Roman  officers, 
known  as  the  pubblica  sicurezza,  every  one  declares, 
are  steady  men,  innocent  of  bribes  and  complots.  Such, 
certainly,  are  those  fine-looking  fellows,  the  carabinieri. 
True,  on  the  other  hand,  that  several  thousand  murders 
— I  can't  recall  the  exact  figure — take  place  every  year 
in  the  Peninsula.  You  have  heard  me  talk,  often 
enough,  against  capital  punishment — the  gallows,  guil- 
lotine, electric  killing-machinery,  and  all  the  other 
hideous  weapons  of  the  law.  Well,  the  Italians  are  of 
my  mind ;  they  have  abolished  the  hangman,  but  don't 
quite  know  what  to  do  with  the  assassin.  Moreover, 
as  I  said,  they  have  not  yet  left  the  Middle  Ages  be- 
hind. That,  indeed,  is  the  singular  charm  of  their 
country.  Side  by  side  you  may  look  on  the  centuries 
here,  struggling  pell-mell  in  a  confusion  as  picturesque 
as  it  is  indescribable.  Murder  was  once  the  trade  of  a 
gentleman ;  and  even  my  tender-hearted  Victor  Hugo 
assures  me  that  it  is  still  frequently  the  outcome  of  the 
finest  instincts.  A  pleasing  thought,  for  I  came  as  near 
committing  murder  three  days  ago  as  the  most  virtuous 
could  wish. 

It  happened  in  this  way — but  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
a  long  story,  and  I  know  Miss  Dalton  will  be  scanda- 
lized before  I  have  done ;  so  I  had  better  begin  at  the 
beginning,  in  the  hope  of  tuning  her  nerves  up  to  the 
right  pitch.  You,  Laura,  did  not  guess,  neither  did 
your  friend,  so  English  and  insular  as  you  both  are, 
what  I  had  in  view  when  I  started  on  this  Italian  jour- 
ney. You  did,  say  you  ?  Only  in  the  vague,  I  assure 
you.  My  motive  has,  doubtless,  not  changed  since 
Pater  and  I  fell  out.  It  never  will  change;  it  is 
supreme  and  irresistible  as  a  monomania.  "  Yes,"  you 


CHAP.  I.]  TO  LAURA  WINWOOD  7 

reply,  "  always  Don  Quixote  and  Kis  windmills."  Be 
it  so.  But  in  coming  to  Rome  I  wanted,  at  least,  to 
get  a  blessing  on  my  enchanted  sword.  How?  You 
shall  hear.  .  .  . 

For  the  last  half-hour,  instead  of  going  on  with  my 
story,  I  have  sat  watching  this  beautiful  storm.  The 
castle  is  perched  at  such  a  height  over  the  Campagna, 
into  which  a  winding  valley  leads  at  some  distance,  that 
we  are  above  the  clouds,  among  which  the  lightning 
darts  to  and  fro,  a  great  tawny  dragon,  with  eyes  aflame. 
Never  did  I  hear  such  loud  thunder ;  at  the  end  of  Octo- 
ber it  is  out  of  season.  If  I  had  faith  in  omens,  it  ought 
to  make  my  flesh  creep.  However,  che  sara  sara.  What 
a  translucent  splendor  Monte  Sant*  Angelo  appears  in 
the  foreground,  close  to  my  window,  when  the  lightnings 
take  it  and  the  rain-clouds  glisten!  The  landscape 
is  now  one  immense  orchestra — woods,  hills,  castles, 
villages  all  playing  in  a  symphony  of  majestic,  heart- 
subduing  sounds.  The  world  is  alive,  resonant  with 
innumerable  voices,  uttering  its  secret  from  the  deeps 
and  the  heights.  Why  do  we  not  live  that  life,  and  for- 
get the  Cities  of  the  Plain  where  men  struggle,  cheat, 
deceive,  lie,  rob,  and  murder?  But  thirty-five  miles 
away  is  Rome,  the  queen  of  infinite  sorrows.  There 
my  tale  must  begin.  .  .  . 

I  traveled  from  Perugia,  on  an  evening  almost  as 
unsettled  as  this,  the  sky  a  golden  leaf,  beat  out  into 
colors,  all  various,  but  tinged  with  orange  or  yellow; 
and  by  way  of  Foligno  and  Narni  I  came  at  length 
down  upon  the  Campagna,  stars  resting  over  Monte 
Rotondo,  and  the  lines  of  the  aqueducts  dimly  visible 
in  a  lonesome  land.  Somewhere,  suddenly — it  might 
have  been  an  acted  dream — the  walls  of  Rome  opened, 
lifting  our  train  through,  into  a  glare  of  demon-light ; 
and  rows  and  rows  of  carriages  fled  by;  voices  were 
heard  calling ;  walls  of  crude  white  rose  up  to  meet  us ; 


8  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

I  found  myself  in  a  modern  railway-station,  on  a 
crowded  platform,  with  facchini  around  me,  and  cabs 
at  the  doors.  Was  this  Rome? 

I  hailed  a  vettura  and  we  passed  out.  A  little  way 
on,  the  fountain  in  the  piazza  threw  up  ghastly  floods 
of  that  demon-light;  plane-trees,  borrowed  from  the 
boulevards  of  Paris,  lifted  their  bourgeois  heads  above 
coffee-tables  and  in  front  of  noisy  casinos ;  the  Italians 
of  Rome — not,  as  God  is  good  to  us,  not  Roman  citi- 
zens— strolled,  jested,  laughed,  listened  to  airs  from 
"  Orphee  aux  Enfers,"  lounged  and  chattered  in  their 
thousands  under  hanging  boughs.  I  said  to  myself, 
"  Those  were  the  Baths  of  Diocletian ;  there  is  Santa 
Maria  degli  Angeli,  the  consummate  work  of  the  Flor- 
entine; and  these  are  the  Barbarians."  My  cab  rolled 
forward  over  streets  and  streets,  down  the  center  of 
which  electric  lamps  were  ranged  like  tall  sentinels, 
along  the  sides  of  which  rose  the  deadly-white  new 
palaces — banks,  hotels,  clubs,  houses  of  finance  in  every 
shape ;  luxury  here,  the  means  of  luxury  there ;  an 
enormous  gambling-hell  lit  up  with  its  cold,  hard  smile 
- — and  where  was  the  Rome  that  this  had  supplanted 
after  twenty-six  centuries?  Behind,  hidden  away, 
shoveled  out  of  sight,  sleeping  in  the  sculpture-galler- 
ies, imprisoned  in  the  Vatican.  I  had  come  to  look 
upon  the  two  Romes  and  compare  them.  This  new- 
made  city  of  yesterday,  with  its  lights  flaring,  I  thought 
was  a  ring  of  naphtha  lamps,  inside  which  the  magician 
must  take  his  stand,  if  he  would  call  up  the  ghosts  of 
antiquity,  and  compel  the  truth  from  their  dead,  pale 
lips. 

My  cab  rolled  forward  —  away  beyond  the  sham- 
Parisian  thoroughfares,  but  not  away  from  the  steel 
track  of  the  cars,  with  their  glitter,  jingle-jangle,  and 
mad  gallop ;  past  the  massive  old  Palazzo  Venezia,  all 
dark  within;  down  the  Corso  Vittorio  Emmanuele; 


CHAP.  I.]  TO  LAURA  WINWOOD  9 

and  on  toward  the  Pantheon.  I  had  chosen  a  modest 
little  pension,  kept  in  a  side  street  by  one  of  our  com- 
rades, Giovanni  Finocchio,  known  to  me  in  London 
years  ago,  and  now  come  back  to  set  up  for  himself ; 
a  pension  which  had  no  other  guest  at  the  moment. 
My  cabman  looked  doubtful  when  I  stopped  at  so 
mean  a  threshold ;  but  I  paid  him  rather  handsomely 
— in  ragged  paper  money — and  in  a  few  minutes  Gio- 
vanni was  showing  me  over  his  abode  with  a  delighted 
smile.  It  was  small,  but  clean  and  bright.  "  Clean 
as  a  new  pin,"  cried  Giovanni,  proud  of  his  few  Eng- 
lish phrases.  "  Look,  Signor  Ardente,  you  could  eat 
off  the  floor!  I  know  you  other  English  ;  you  are  like 
il  gatto  di  Cicerinella,  always  washing  yourselves.  Did 
I  live  at  Londra  for  nothing?  Ah  no,  per  Diana,  not 
for  nothing.  You  will  be  clean  here!  Ecco,  Signor 
Ardente,  your  beautiful  bedroom,  fit  for  a  prince." 

It  was  all  I  could  desire,  in  fact.  "  And  no  one  else 
here?  "  I  asked. 

Giovanni  wagged  his  finger  solemnly  in  denial. 

"  Not  Tiberio?"  I  continued,  smiling. 

He  shrank  back  a  little  and  pulled  himself  together. 

"Eh,  non  so" — dropping  and  spreading  out  his 
palms.  "How  should  I  know?  Tiberio  is  his  own 
master.  I  see  him  not  these  many  days.  I — I  want 
not  to  have  dealings  with  Tiberio." 

"  But  in  London  you  were  often  with  him,  were  n't 
you?" 

Vanni  shrugged  his  eloquent  shoulders,  looked  at 
me,  I  thought,  warningly,  and  murmured  under  his 
breath,  "  Signor  Ardente,  Londra  is  not  Rome.  You 
are  come  to  a  city  of  spies,  and  brigands,  and  conspir- 
ators, and — what  shall  I  say?  It  is  so,  I  tell  you. 
Ask  me  not  of  Tiberio.  He  turns  my  blood  only  to 
be  near  him.  Let  him  go,  in  God's  name!" 

"That  I  sha'n't,"  said  I.     "Vanni,  you  are  afraid, 


io  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  L 

but  I  am  not.     It  was  Tiberio  first  made  me  think  of 
coming  on  this  expedition;  I  mean  to  hunt  him  up." 

Vanni  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  me.  Very  dark  eyes 
they  were,  with  passion  in  them,  which  the  simple-look- 
ing brown  face  did  not  express,  nor  the  slight,  boyish 
form.  He  came  close  up  at  last,  and  still  gazing 
earnestly  into  my  face,  whispered,  as  if  the  walls  might 
hear  what  he  was  saying,  "  It  is  true;  yes,  it  is  true — I 
am  afraid."  And  oh!  my  dear  Laura,  if  you  could 
have  listened  while  he  drew  out,  with  shivering  empha- 
sis, that  one  word  of  words  for  an  Italian,  "  Ho  pau-u- 
ra!"  It  was  like  a  child  taking  refuge  in  the  long 
grotto  of  Posilippo  from  the  Giant  Cormoran. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  I,  passing  into  the  saloon,  where 
supper  had  been  laid  for  me,  "  don't  be  too  much 
afraid.  Let  me  know  where  I  am  likely  to  run  up 
against  Tiberio,  and  I  will  look  for  our  comrade.  He 
need  n't  pay  you  a  visit." 

"  Not  my  comrade,"  insisted  Vanni.  "  No,  no,  I 
never  had  anything  to  do  with  him  except  at  Londra. 
But — you  have  been  at  Rome  once?" 

"  Fifteen  years  ago,  when  I  was  a  lad.  Then  I  went 
all  over  Italy." 

"  Know  you  the  Via  dei  Serpenti?  " 

I  reflected  a  minute  or  two.  "  The  dirty,  narrow 
street  that  runs  between  the  Via  Nazionale  and  the 
Colosseum?  "  I  inquired  after  a  pause. 

Vanni  nodded  repeatedly.  "  Ecco,  you  will  find 
Tiberio  there  some  evening,  at  the  Trattoria  Ranieri. 
They  meet  there." 

"Who  meet  there?    The  Roman  Socialists?" 

But  my  little  friend  set  his  teeth  and  made  an  im- 
ploring gesture. 

"Why  will  you  ask,  Signor?  They  meet;  is  it  not 
enough  ?  Were  I  Vossignoria,  I  would  not  go  within  a 
thousand  miles  of  Tiberio.  He  is  the  devil  incarnate." 


CHAP.  I.]  TO   LAURA  WINWOOD  n 

"Anyhow,"  said  I,  unfolding  my  napkin  and  ad- 
dressing myself  to  the  plate  of  minestra  which  Giovanni 
had  brought,  with  a  flask  of  wholesome  red  wine  from 
the  Castelli  Romani,  "  you  need  not  be  alarmed.  I 
shall  not  trouble  the  Via  dei  Serpenti  to-morrow.  I 
have  letters  to  Cardinal  Ligario  which  I  must  deliver." 

"  Ah,  a  cardinal  is  much  better,"  exclaimed  my  host, 
with  sparkling  eyes.  "  His  Eminence,  Ligario,  is  a  good 
man — good  to  the  poor,  good  to  himself,  good  to  every- 
body. A  fine  man  also,  Signer  Ardente,  taller  than 
you  who  are  so  tall.  Not  beautiful — brutto  rather,  and 
strong  as  an  ox — but  full  of  charity.  I  can  show  you 
his  palazzo  in  the  morning.  You  should  be  there  at 
nine.  He  sees  many  and  goes  often  to  the  Vatican. 
How  do  I  know?  I  know  because  his  cameriere, 
Masillo,  is  my  countryman.  We  were  both  born  at 
Avellino — he  near  the  prison,  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  I 
just  outside  the  gate.  We  were  boys  at  school  to- 
gether." 

"  I  will  see  the  Cardinal  first  and  Tiberio  later,"  was 
my  conclusion,  on  rising  from  my  hasty  meal  and  turn- 
ing into  my  pleasant  white  bedroom.  The  slow  journey 
had  fatigued  me ;  the  spectacle  of  this  new  Rome  left 
a  strange  feeling  of  disenchantment.  Vanni  lingered  at 
the  door. 

"  It  is  a  pity  you  don't  believe  in  the  Madonna,"  he 
said,  with  his  half-terrified,  childish  air. 

"  Why,  supposing  I  did,  Giovanni,  what  would  you 
recommend?  " 

"  Ah,  the  Madonna  would  make  his  Eminence  ami- 
able to  you,  and  she  would  keep  you  out  of  Tiberio's 
way.  Don't  I  tell  you,  Signer,  he  is  a  demon  from 
hell?" 

"  Yes,  but  you  do  not  tell  me  what  devilries  he  has 
perpetrated." 

"  If  I  spoke  that  to-day,  I  should  be  dead  to-mor- 


12  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

row.  The  silent  man  lives  long;  chi  tace  non  dice 
niente.  But  if  you  do  meet  him,"  my  little  friend  went 
on,  with  growing  agitation,  "  notice  the  mark  under  his 
right  ear.  Perhaps  you  may  discover  some  day  what  it 
signifies.  Then — "  pausing  with  an  expression  of  the 
fiercest  energy,  "  oh,  then,  you  will  not  desire  to  meet 
Signer  Tiberio  any  more." 

With  these  words,  pronounced  as  sharply  as  if  a  dag- 
ger had  gleamed  through  them,  I  was  left  to  my  night's 
rest.  I  cannot  say  they  made  a  profound  impression 
on  me.  As  usual,  I  dreamed  a  hundred  dreams,  but 
when  morning  broke  I  could  not  have  recalled  them ; 
and  it  was  with  a  light  heart  I  set  forth,  under  Gio- 
vanni's guidance,  to  present  myself  in  the  audience- 
chamber  of  Marcello,  Cardinal  Ligario. 


CHAPTER   II' 

CARDINAL   AND    UTOPIAN 

/"PHE  storm  rages  on.  That,  Miss  Dalton,  is  my 
-L  only  stage-direction  while  I  continue  this  ghostly 
narrative.  For  you  are  not  to  believe  that  the  Roman 
sunshine  under  which,  a  brilliant,  blazing  dome,  I 
walked  to  Cardinal  Ligario's,  will  banish  the  specters, 
wraiths,  and  uncanny  rout  of  hobgoblins,  associated  in 
other  lands  with  night-scenes  and  darkness.  There  is 
a  melancholy  which  broods  over  the  Eternal  City  un- 
broken, intensified  by  the  blue  sky,  and  meeting  you 
unexpectedly  during  your  wanderings  like  a  breath  of 
malaria.  I  remember  it  from  of  old.  I  could  have 
wished  Giovanni  away ;  but  he  would  run  by  me  and 
chatter  all  the  time.  We  took  a  roundabout  journey, 
through  the  quaint  square  of  the  Pantheon,  where  all  is 
gaunt  and  aged,  and  the  marbles  seem  to  be  stained 
black  by  the  centuries ;  then  out  by  Monte  Citorio,  and 
across  the  Piazza  Colonna,  where  St.  Paul  looks  down 
now  from  his  column  instead  of  the  faultless  Emperor 
Marcus ;  and  so  onward,  until  we  were  climbing  toward 
St.  Mary  Major's.  On  those  slopes  the  Cardinal  abode, 
in  a  palace  not  his  own,  of  which  he  had  taken  the 
primo  piano  since  he  settled  down  in  the  Curia. 

But,  my  gentle  Puritan — for  I  still  address  you  and 
not  Laura — dismiss,  I  pray,  all  that  your  novels  and 
romances  have  described  to  you  as  the  pomp  and  state 

13 


14  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

of  a  Roman  cardinal.  The  palazzo,  I  grant  you,  was 
ancient,  with  an  interior  court  of  which  the  colonnade 
had  been  filled  up,  a  fountain  in  the  middle,  its  music 
scarcely  troubling  the  air,  and  a  marble  staircase  in  one 
corner,  which  went  up  to  the  fifth  story,  or  as  many  as 
there  might  be.  Yes,  so  far  the  picture  is  correct. 
But  where  are  the  throng  of  carriages,  the  lackeys  in 
livery,  the  rustling  of  silks  on  stairs  and  corridors,  the 
audience  crammed  with  poets,  painters,  churchmen 
high  and  low,  and  the  universal  gala?  Gone,  quite 
gone.  The  wide,  gray  steps  were  vacant ;  not  so  much 
as  a  one-horse  legno  stood  at  the  door.  Silence  and 
solitude  took  their  ease  in  the  decaying  courtyard. 
There  was  not  even  a  flower  among  the  crannies  of  the 
massive  walls  to  soften  their  austerity.  The  Palazzo 
Annibaldi  lay  along  in  the  dust  of  its  thousand  shadows, 
forbidding  as  a  solid  block  of  lava  which  had  once 
been  fire  and  was  now  its  own  monument.  What  sun- 
shine could  pierce  that  gloom? 

Such  is  Rome  everywhere,  a  portentous  reality  be- 
tween dead  and  alive.  Would  the  Prince  of  the 
Church  resemble  his  dark  dwelling,  and  seem  but  the 
shadow  of  greatness?  We  mounted  the  low  steps  in- 
side; Giovanni  pulled  a  bell»at  the  lofty  doors  in  front 
of  us,  over  which  hung  a  faded  escutcheon  carved  in 
oak;  and  a  leaf  was  opened — not  immediately,  how- 
ever— by  one  whom  I  should  have  taken  for  a  brigand 
in  plain  clothes,  so  furtive  were  his  glances  under  shag- 
giest eyebrows,  had  not  my  companion  saluted  him  as 
Masillo.  In  a  moment  they  were  in  each  other's  arms, 
talking  most  volubly  in  their  Neapolitan  dialect,  and 
gesticulating  with  hands,  eyes,  and  every  muscle  of  the 
human  countenance.  Their  pantomime  was  ridicu- 
lously expressive.  I  could  make  little  of  the  words 
they  spoke ;  but  how  could  I  fail  to  discover  that  Gio- 
vanni— who  put  me  in  mind  of  a  handsome  Pulcinelk 


CHAP.  II.]  CARDINAL  AND   UTOPIAN  15 

exchanging  defiances  with  a  stage  demon — was  insist- 
ing on  my  seeing  his  Eminence  without  delay,  for  I 
brought  a  message  of  life  and  death  ?  Now  concerning 
my  message  I  had  vouchsafed  to  Signor  Finocchio  not 
one  syllable.  He  lied,  therefore,  by  instinct,  or  to  keep 
his  hand  in.  But  was  it  lying?  Shall  we  not  say, 
rather,  the  raw  material  of  poetry,  or  even  one  of  those 
pretty  arabesques  which  light  up  the  plain  surface  of 
fact?  At  any  rate,  I  was  the  gainer  by  this  dramatic 
improvisation.  Masillo — which  is,  being  interpreted, 
Master  Tom — admitted  me,  through  a  sort  of  vestibule, 
into  the  saloon,  and  at  once  conveyed  my  letter  of  in- 
troduction to  the  Cardinal.  I  had  only  time  to  observe 
that  three  or  four  ecclesiastics  stood  about  in  the  apart- 
ment, and  a  young  man  in  lay  costume  by  the  window, 
where  an  old  priest  was  talking  to  him,  when  Masillo, 
coming  back,  led  me  through  another  tall  door,  and  I 
was  bowing  low  in  the  presence  of  his  master. 

The  Cardinal  was  standing  near  a  broad  table,  cov- 
ered with  documents  and  folios  in  white  vellum;  his 
chair  in  crimson  velvet  had  been  pushed  back ;  and  just 
over  his  head  hung  a  magnificent  "  Descent  from  the 
Cross,"  in  its  gilt  Renaissance  frame.  The  room  was 
plainly  furnished ;  a  door  half-open  showed  the  chapel 
beyond;  there  was  a  flood  of  light  on  every  object; 
and  I  saw  a  figure  which  Michael  Angelo  would  willingly 
have  sculptured  in  eternal  Carrara.  So  tall  as  almost 
to  be  gigantic ;  thews  and  sinews  of  iron  which  no 
churchman's  trailing  garments  could  disguise ;  shoulders 
upright  and  proud,  "  fit  to  bear  the  weight  of  mightiest 
monarchies  " ;  and  a  profile  irregular  but  powerful  be- 
neath a  mass  of  coal-black  hair.  Not  a  gray  thread 
was  visible  on  the  forehead  of  this  man  of  sixty-three. 
He  held  out  a  muscular  hand  to  me,  and,  in  accordance 
with  Roman  usage,  I  kissed  the  amethyst  ring  which 
he  wore  on  his  fourth  finger.  Impossible  not  to  be 


16  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

aware  that  I  had  come  into  a  mighty  presence,  over- 
powering by  its  sheer  intimation  of  physical  energy  and 
organs  ready  to  serve  an  unknown  will.  Draped  in 
black  from  head  to  foot,  the  only  touches  of  color  were 
given  by  his  scarlet  sash  and  zucchetto,  or  skull-cap, 
the  latter  setting  off  his  deeply  flushed  features  as  with 
a  martyr's  crown. 

"  Be  seated,  sir."  The  voice  had  a  robustness  in 
keeping  with  the  figure.  He  leaned  back  in  his  curule 
chair  now  and  grasped  its  gilded  arms,  looking  for  all 
the  world  like  Titian's  celebrated  portrait  of  Julius  II 
come  to  life  again.  But  I  would  not  be  daunted,  and 
while  taking  the  seat  to  which  he  pointed  me,  I  kept 
my  eyes  on  his. 

The  Cardinal  had  spoken  in  English,  with  a  strong 
nasal  twang,  which  might  have  been  American.  I  re- 
membered that  he  had  spent  years  in  the  New  World, 
as  Secretary  to  the  Delegation  at  Washington,  and  in 
other  high  capacities. 

"You  understand  Italian?"  he  continued,  perusing 
once  more  my  letter  of  introduction.  "  Mr.  Lestrange, 
our  amiable  guest  of  a  year  ago,  says  you  are  a 
Dante  scholar.  I  congratulate  you ;  Dante  is  the  su- 
preme poet  '  chi  sovra  gli  altri  com'  aquila  vola,'  as  he 
says  of  St.  John.  But  reading  is  not  conversation." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  I  shall  understand  your  Eminence's 
Italian.  I  have  made  acquaintance  with  it  in  a  volume 
of  addresses  on  the  question  of  the  age — the  Social  Ques- 
tion— reading  which  I  took  heart  and  have  come  to  you." 

He  smiled,  and  beat  the  open  letter  with  a  paper- 
knife.  "  Trifles,  things  of  nothing,"  said  he,  passing 
into  his  native  language.  "  But  you  agree  with  them, 
yet  you  are  not  a  Catholic." 

"  How  many  are,  your  Eminence,  that  call  themselves 
so?" 

We  both  smiled  now,  and  the  Cardinal  sighed.     "  It 


CHAP.  II.]  CARDINAL  AND  UTOPIAN  17 

is  too  true.  Nevertheless,  I  am  astonished — who  would 
not  be  ? — when  my  friend,  the  editor  of  the  '  London 
Clarion,'  and  now  you,  his  representative,  talk  of  an 
alliance  with  Holy  Mother  Church.  What,  in  a  word,  do 
you  ask  of  us?"  leaning  forward  and  looking  gracious. 

Now,  Laura,  move  down  the  stage  and  listen.  I 
struck  my  great  stroke  on  the  instant. 

"  Eminence !  "  I  said,  "  we  ask  the  Church  to  carry 
out  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount." 

He  started  from  his  seat,  flushed  a  deeper  crimson, 
and  answered,  "  She  does  that  already.  The  Religious 
Orders,  with  their  vows  of  perfection — " 

I  broke  in,  "  We  are  not  talking  of  Orders.  I  mean 
the  people — the  millions — those  heaps  of  putrefying 
life — Rome,  Paris,  Vienna — cities  that  are  hells  and  a 
world  of  the  damned.  They  cry  aloud  for  redemption. 
You  are  the  Church  of  the  poor;  you  have  a  hundred 
thousand  pulpits;  your  influence  is  everywhere.  No 
government  can  break  or  silence  you.  What  are  you 
doing  for  these,  the  poor  of  Christ?  Have  they 
bread?  Have  they  a  change  of  raiment?  Do  they 
live  in  decent  homes?  What  becomes  of  their  girls 
when  they  cease  to  be  children  ?  Is  the  Gospel  for  the 
cloister  alone  ?  Not  for  the  proletarian  and  the  pauper  ? 
Eminence,  we  men  of  a  new  time  ask  you,  the  Church 
of  the  past,  to  join  hands  with  us.  Will  you  refuse?" 

Had  I  stirred  those  deep  waters  ?  There  was  no  tell- 
ing. The  Cardinal's  eyes  never  blinked,  yet  I  fancied 
an  expression  in  them,  slightly  ironical,  or  even  amused, 
which  made  me  feel  a  good  many  years  more  juvenile 
than  before  I  had  burst  out  in  this  headlong  fashion. 
The  situation  had  its  comic  features.  My  lips  quivered, 
and  the  stately  old  man  broke  into  a  smile — the  merest 
ripple.  "  I  see,"  he  said  gravely  in  his  nasal  Eng- 
lish. "  You  are  an  enthusiast.  I  remember  such  in 

America." 
2 


18  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BooK  I. 

"Your  Eminence  may  learn  of  more  in  America," 
cried  I,  between  my  exasperation  and  my  desire  to 
alarm  or  persuade  him.  "  Shall  we  do  the  work  of  the 
Catholic  Church,  while  you,  in  your  scarlet  robes,  look 
on?  Think  what  will  come  of  it!  Is  Capitalism  the 
sum  of  the  Beatitudes?" 

"  Bravo,  giovane  mio,"  said  the  Cardinal,  with  an 
encouraging  gesture — irony  again?  "Your  spirit  is 
charming.  But — yes,  yes,  we  are  the  Church  of  the 
poor,  and  that  not  from  yesterday.  Is  it  we  that  have 
stolen  their  patrimony  ?  Is  not  the  Holy  Father  him- 
self in  prison  ?  The  Sacred  College  were  princes,  now 
they  are  beggars.  The  monasteries,  with  their  altars, 
vestments,  chalices — and  what  know  I  ? — have  been 
put  up  at  auction,  sold  for  as  little  as  they  would  fetch, 
robbed  from  the  people  that  Jews  may  hunt  over  their 
acres.  Look,"- he  went  on, taking  me  fiercely  by  the 
arm  and  leading  me  to  the  window,  "  do  you  see  that 
great  building?  It  is  the  Ministry  of  War.  Knock 
there,  and  if  they  let  you  in,  you  will  find  the  labor  of 
our  people  ground  into  taxes,  heaped  up  in  powder, 
ready  to  be  blown  away  from  the  cannon's  mouth. 
Turn  again :  the  tall  palace  which  intercepts  heaven's 
light  across  the  way  was  erected,  at  the  public  expense, 
but  not  with  the  public  consent,  for  a  famous  statesman 
who  loaded  his  pockets  with  gold.  Who  are  the  rob- 
bers? They  are  those  self-styled  liberators,  to  whom 
statues  are  set  up  in  every  town.  Go  to  them  if  you 
seek  the  patrimony  of  the  poor.  But  do  not  come  and 
reproach  us,  victims  ourselves,  who  eat  our  scanty 
bread  with  tears." 

The  deep  waters  had  surged  up  in  foam  and  tempest ; 
my  man  was  caught,  notwithstanding  his  politic  reti- 
cences. "  Nay,"  said  I,  playing  with  him  in  turn,  "  I 
shall  not  go  to  the  Ministry.  Would  they  disgorge 
their  prey  if  I  did  ?  " 


CHAP.  II.]  CARDINAL  AND   UTOPIAN  19 

"  Macche,  disgorge!  "  he  exclaimed,  in  his  untrans- 
latable Italian.  "  Where  they  have  not  plundered  they 
have  squandered ;  they  are  near  the  bottom  of  the  sack 
now,  the  brigands!  " 

"  Then  will  your  Eminence  bear  with  me  while  I  tell 
my  dream?  " 

"  Sit  down  again,"  said  he,  "  but  I  must  be  leaving 
soon  for  the  Vatican." 

I  assured  him  the  tale  should  be  speedily  told. 
And,  as  he  leaned  back  with  half-shut  eyelids,  through 
which  an  occasional  gleam  smote  on  me,  I  poured  into 
his  ears  the  Quixotic  and  Utopian  experiences,  the 
aspirations  which  still  obstinately  refused  to  breathe 
their  last,  of  Arden  Massiter.  I  told  him  of  my  Non- 
conformist ancestry,  my  bringing  up  at  Oxford,  my 
novitiate  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  with  its  tragical  end- 
ing: how  I  had  flung  that  devil's  business  to  the  winds, 
broken  with  my  father,  taken  a  trade  in  hand,  then  left 
it  for  teaching  as  my  proper  vocation,  and  gone  over 
to  the  States  with  my  friends  in  search  of  a  real  new 
world,  among  the  fields  of  Tennessee.  We  did  our  ut- 
most, I  could  truly  avouch ;  were  happy  and  successful 
at  first,  then  found  the  society  we  had  abandoned  too 
strong  for  us.  So  we  were  thrown  back  into  the  world 
once  more.  And  I — nor  was  I  alone  in  my  conviction 
— perceived  now  that  no  kingdom  in  the  air,  no  float- 
ing soap-bubble,  born  one  moment  to  break  the  next, 
could  fulfil  our  designs.  Where  was  the  mistake? 
Why,  it  was  plain  enough  when  you  saw  it.  We  young 
idiots  had  gone  out  from  history  and  reckoned  without 
religion.  That  was  all.  Yet  our  thoughts  were  just ; 
our  ideals  had  the  promise  of  the  future — but  among 
men  and  in  populous  places,  not  in  the  desert  where 
we  strove  in  vain  to  plant  these  immortal  seeds. 
Where,  then,  did  the  ideal  live  in  society  ?  Where  was 
history  embodied?  The  great  old  Christian  Church, 


20  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BooK  I. 

majestic  and  popular,  inspired  yet  organized,  rose  at 
this  turning-point  into  view.  I  waxed  eloquent  on  art, 
worship,  brotherhood,  the  aspects  of  a  diviner  life. 
And  the  Cardinal  mused  in  his  chair  and  spake  no 
word. 

At  last  he  sat  up.  His  eyes  were  like  stars.  When 
he  opened  his  lips  it  was  to  utter  a  sentence  in  Latin, 
"  '  Erubesce  Sidon,  ait  mare.'  Do  you  know  what  that 
saying  means,  Mr.  Massiter?  You — I  will  not  call  you 
Socialists — but  whatever  your  name,  you  teach  us  a 
lesson.  Only,  you  are  very  little  acquainted  with  Italy. 
Have  you  studied  our  people  in  the  hundred  cities? 
In  the  mountains,  where  I  come  from  ?  In  Calabria  or 
Sicily?" 

"  No,"  I  returned,  "  that  is  my  second  petition.  I 
want,  in  the  columns  of  this  great  London  newspaper, 
to  sketch  Italian  life  as  it  now  is — a  plain,  unvarnished 
picture.  Make  me  known  to  the  Catholic  leaders. 
Revolution  is  smoldering  everywhere ;  but  in  Italy, 
we  think,  the  lava  stream  is  beginning  to  pour  over  the 
lip  of  the  volcano.  If  you  will  not  close  with  our  alli- 
ance, tell  us  at  least  what  you  are  doing.  The  world 
does  not  know;  and  the  moral  influence  of  the  Catholic 
Church  is  going  to  waste  like  water." 

The  Cardinal  rang  his  bell.     Masillo  appeared. 

"Is  Don  Gaetano  still  in  the  antechamber?"  his 
master  inquired. 

"  Eminenza,  si." 

"  Beg  him  to  do  me  the  favor  of  entering  "  ;  and  then 
to  me,  "  Don  Gaetano  is  your  man.  I  am  delighted 
that  he  has  not  gone  away." 

A  firm  step  was  heard  on  the  tessellated  floor.  I 
stood  up  and  waited  until  the  young  man  who  now 
came  in,  and  whom  I  had  seen  at  the  window  of  the 
saloon  previously,  had  knelt  for  the  Cardinal's  bene- 
diction. 


CHAP.  II.]  CARDINAL  AND   UTOPIAN  21 

When  he  was  erect  again,  and  we  had  exchanged 
salutations  after  a  word  from  his  Eminence,  I  thought 
my  eyes  had  never  looked  on  so  goodly  a  person.  I 
was  willing  that  instant  to  clasp  his  hand.  But  he 
stood,  a  little  pensive,  his  face  turned  from  me  so  long 
as  the  Cardinal  went  on  speaking,  and  I  listened,  my 
fancy  engaged  the  while  in  conjecturing  pleasant  things 
about  this  Don  Gaetano,  whose  attitude  and  expression 
reminded  me  of  some  half- forgotten  picture. 

Not  so  old  as  myself  by  three  or  four  years,  nor  so 
tall  by  several  inches,  and,  happily,  not  so  thin,  a  figure 
admirable  in  its  proportions,  easy  and  supple  when  in 
movement,  and  a  face  the  most  beautiful  in  its  clear 
olive  I  had  ever  seen.  The  lips  were  full  and  smilingly 
curved,  a  golden-brown  mustache  overshadowing  them ; 
the  eyes  most  intense  and  soft;  the  hair  in  curls,  close 
to  the  head,  brown  with  streaks  of  gold,  strangely  re- 
sembling the  hair  of  some  Greek  statue — perhaps  the 
Ludovisi  Bacchus.  A  morning-tunic  of  maroon  cloth 
set  in  relief  a  form  athletic  and  abounding  in  vigor. 
But  I  was  absorbed  in  contrasting  the  perfect  color  of 
the  features  with  Cardinal  Ligario's  storm-beaten 
countenance.  In  that — and  in  promising  myself  a  new 
friend. 

They  both  talked  now,  too  fast  for  my  following 
them.  Don  Gaetano  had  a  manly,  persuasive  accent, 
quite  free  from  the  nasal  tones  which  spoil  the  loveliest 
of  European  languages.  I  caught  a  phrase  here  and 
there ;  the  Cardinal  seemed  to  be  rehearsing  Lestrange's 
letter  of  introduction,  which  ran  to  some  length,  and 
was,  I  dare  say,  rather  florid  in  praise  of  me — Lestrange 
has  a  large  collection  of  swans,  good  fellow  that  he  is. 
My  young  man  threw  in  a  word  of  approbation,  then 
turned  on  me  his  winning  smile. 

"  You  do  not  love  this  new  Rome?"  he  said,  waving 
his  hand  toward  the  window. 


22  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

"  I  detest  what  I  have  seen  of  it ;  still  more,  what  I 
have  heard." 

"  And  you  would  like  to  be  a  friend  of  some  of  us 
old  Romans?  —  Papalini,  Codini,  pieces  of  antiquity?  " 

If  they  were  at  all  like  Don  Gaetano,  thought  I  to 
myself,  how  they  would  put  to  shame  our  modern  civ- 
ilization! Angels  moving  about  their  tasks  in  Fleet 
Street  could  not  lay  bare  its  disenchantments  more 
vividly,  though  their  garments  had  been  flame  and 
their  eyes  the  lightning. 

"The  Sorelli  once  had  a  palace  in  Rome;  perhaps 
you  have  explored  it,"  resumed  Gaetano,  "  but  it  was 
sold  to  our  cousins;  we  have  none  now." 

"  There  is  Camillo's,"  interposed  the  Cardinal,  quietly. 

His  visitor  curled  an  expressive  lip.  "  Camillo  belongs 
to  New  Rome ;  his  palace  is  a  barracks  all  of  stucco. 
Eminence,  I  shall  not  propose  to  show  this  English 
Signer  the  Sorelli  in  a  light  so  deplorable.  We  were 
always  Guelfs.  Camillo  is  a  Ghibelline — worse,"  and 
he  laughed  scornfully,  "  Camillo  is  one  of  the  buz- 
zurri." 

I  knew  that  "  buzzurri "  was  a  contemptuous  name 
for  the  Piedmontese  "  carpet-baggers,"  who  have  settled 
on  the  Eternal  City — a  swarm  of  locusts.  But  it  was 
for  me  to  hold  my  peace. 

"  No,"  said  Gaetano,  holding  out  his  hand  and  re- 
turning my  clasp,  "  but  will  you  do  my  father  and  me 
the  honor  of  staying  with  us  at  Roccaforte  ?  " 

Would  I  go  to  the  world's  end  with  him  ?  Is  it  not 
wonderful,  Laura,  that  friendship  at  first  sight  should 
be  possible,  even  in  a  time  so  deadly  prosaic  as  ours? 
I  stammered  out  "Yes,"  and  the  Cardinal  approvingly 
said,  "  Now,  mio  caro,  you  will  see  the  old  Italian  ways. 
The  Prince,  Don  Gaetano's  father,  is  Duke  of  Rocca- 
forte ;  it  is  beyond  Velletri,  in  the  Volscian  Hills. 
New  Rome  has  not  mounted  up  there  yet,  thanks  be 


CHAP.  II.]  CARDINAL  AND   UTOPIAN  23 

to  God  and  our  Lady.  I  know  the  country  well ;  for 
I  was  born  at  Solmona,  and  as  a  lad  I  wandered  down 
more  than  once  to  the  Monti  Lepini,  and  went  on  pil- 
grimage to  the  Madonna  delle  Grazie.  Before  your 
time,  Don  Gaetano!  " 

"  Well,  then,"  said  the  young  Prince,  "  is  it  under- 
stood? You  will  be  our  guest  at  the  Rocca,  Signer 
Inglese?  How  soon?" 

My  wings  would  have  taken  me  there  instantly — I 
mean  my  desires.  But  I  was  under  a  pledge  to  find 
Tiberio  first  and  learn  what  I  could  from  him  of  the 
subterranean  movements  in  this  volcanic  soil.  I  men- 
tioned that  day  week.  Gaetano  assented;  he  would 
write  and  announce  our  coming  to  the  Duke.  Mean- 
while, with  his  fascinating  manner,  he  invited  me  to 
drive  round  the  Passegiata  Margherita  in  the  evening 
and  dine  at  his  club.  I  excused  myself  from  the  din- 
ner ;  it  was  part  of  the  heathen  ritual  I  had  cast  away ; 
besides,  my  correspondence  claimed  me.  But  I  would 
willingly  share  in  his  drive.  Alone  with  Don  Gaetano, 
I  should  have  little  trouble  in  persuading  him  to  give 
me  his  confidence.  That  arranged,  I  took  my  leave. 


CHAPTER   III 

THE   VIEW    FROM    MONTORIO 

AT  the  appointed  hour  we  met  on  the  steps  of  the 
JT\.  club,  or  circolo,  of  which  Don  Gaetano  was  a 
member,  not  far  from  the  entrance  to  the  Corso,  where 
the  Piazza  del  Popolo  is  adorned  with  those  two  toy- 
box  churches,  absurdly  like  one  another,  erected  by 
Pius  VI.  The  Prince  was  driving  a  spirited  roan, 
yoked  to  an  open  carriage,  as  light  and  elegant  as  the 
classical  biga,  known  to  you  from  innumerable  draw- 
ings, which  stands  under  its  own  cupola  in  the  halls  of 
the  Vatican.  It  was  the  fashionable  hour  when  the 
Corso  is  thronged,  one  line  of  carriages  ascending 
toward  the  Piazza  Colonna,  a  parallel  line  descending 
until  it  emerges  on  the  open  space  before  the  Flaminian 
Gate,  and  turns  by  the  obelisk  to  the  Pincian  in  time 
for  the  sunset.  Our  direction  was  upward  along  the 
whole  route — for  we  were  to  drive  to  the  Acqua  Paola, 
which  is  across  the  river,  and  then  down  to  the  Pas- 
segiata  Margherita  and  home  by  St.  Peter's.  We  could 
move  only  at  a  walking  pace ;  but  I  did  not  regret  hav- 
ing leisure  to  draw  out  my  companion,  while  I  exam- 
ined this  Roman  world  as  it  passed  in  solemn  procession 
on  both  sides  of  us. 

We  talked,  or  rather  I  talked,  shy  and  surly  as  you 
know  me  to  be  in  my  proper  bearskin ;  but  the  Don 
was  silent  as  a  Spaniard,  though  his  sweet  expression 

24 


CHAP.  III.]         THE  VIEW  FROM  MONTORIO  25 

of  countenance  made  up  for  it,  and  I  feared  our  con- 
versation would  degenerate  into  a  monologue.  How- 
ever, by  degrees  he  thawed.  The  keen,  bright  air  of 
October  and  a  transparent  sky  brought  out  color  in  the 
long  array  of  vehicles,  where  every  type  of  male  and 
female  beauty  or  ugliness  from  the  ends  of  the  earth 
shone  or  lowered  upon  the  spectator,  and  Parisian  toi- 
lettes called  up  an  unwelcome  vision  of  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne.  The  Corso  is  not,  and  never  can  have  been, 
a  magnificent  street.  There  are  no  buildings  to  arrest 
the  eye,  nothing  to  compare  for  an  instant  with  the  Via 
Balbi  at  Genoa,  or  twenty  other  show- thoroughfares 
which  might  be  named.  Rome  has  no  striking  succes- 
sion of  palaces,  or  lines  of  jeweled  windows,  or  avenues 
that  lead  you  on  from  point  to  point  of  loveliness ;  and 
the  Corso,  narrow,  dusty,  uniform  in  tint,  monotonous 
in  treatment,  is  a  deep  trench  with  a  strip  of  intense 
blue  overhead.  I  remarked  as  much  to  Don  Gaetano. 

"  True,"  said  he,  absently,  "  but  it  was  once  the  street 
of  the  Carnival." 

"Was — not  is?"  I  echoed. 

"  Yes,"  he  went  on,  half  to  himself,  "  in  other  years 
these  carriages  might  have  been  filled  with  a  crowd  of 
maskers;  allegories  would  pass  by  in  triumphal  cars; 
the  windows  would  have  flaunted  their  gayest  tapes- 
tries ;  in  every  balcony  you  would  have  seen  groups  of 
joyous  or  grotesque  figures,  amused  and  amusing,  while 
the  white  showers  of  confetti  filled  the  air  and  sprinkled 
their  snow  on  the  heads  and  the  bright  dominos  of  a 
population  of  revelers,  and  by  and  by  the  moccoli 
would  sparkle  everywhere.  We  Romans,  my  father 
assures  me,  could  be  children  at  play,  and  the  city  an 
opera-stage,  in  the  bad  old  times.  But  now — "  his 
features  took  on  an  expression  of  grave  satire,  "  the 
forestieri  flock  to  Rome  at  Carnival,  and  bring  their 
moneyed  melancholy  with  them.  An  Italian  funeral  is 


26  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

gayer  than  this  never-ending  march  of  souls  in  pain. 
Look  at  them.  Even  their  love-making  is  a  dull  flir- 
tation." 

I  looked,  as  he  bade  me,  and  laughed.  Many  couples 
of  innamorati  were  passing  in  every  sort  of  modern 
conveyance  that  wealth  could  put  its  glitter  upon ;  but 
the  Carnival  had  taken  flight,  and  one  would  as  soon 
have  expected  the  obelisk  in  the  piazza  behind  us  to 
begin  dancing  a  Scottish  jig  as  these  languid  persons  to 
pelt  each  other  with  confetti  and  sugar-plums  or  break 
out  into  sonnets.  Don  Gaetano  laughed  as  well,  but 
his  eyes  flashed  with  a  sinister  light. 

"  You  want  the  bad  old  times  back  again — King 
Carnival  and  the  rest?"  I  said  to  him.  "Should  you 
be  willing  to  revive  it  all?  A  scene,  for  instance,  like 
the  scarlet-hued  panorama  which  Dumas  gives  in 
'  Monte  Cristo '  of  a  carnival-execution  in  Papal 
Rome?" 

"Why  not?"  shrugging  his  shoulders  and  touching 
his  steed's  flanks  sharply.  "  It  was  tragic  and  passion- 
ate. This — who  could  live  long  with  this?  It  is  the 
mud  of  the  Tiber  when  the  flood  has  retreated — mud, 
stained  yellow!  Pah,  let  us  get  away  from  it. 
Avanti!  "  And  he  whipped  up  the  roan  and  almost 
entangled  our  wheels  with  a  carriage  that  was  coming 
down  at  a  smart  trot  over  the  broader  spaces  of  the 
Piazza  Colonna,  where  we  had  now  arrived.  There 
was  a  slight  confusion  until  the  vehicles  got  loose  again. 
The  barouche,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  splendid  grays,  with 
which  we  had  come  into  collision,  held  a  single  figure — 
a  tall  and  remarkably  pale-faced  man,  with  dark 
whiskers  and  regular  profile,  who  was  reclining  as  if 
fatigued  against  the  cushions  behind  him.  He  looked 
up,  uttered  an  inarticulate  exclamation,  and  saluted 
with  his  right  hand,  showing  a  thin  smile  over  his  white  * 
teeth,  but  the  rest  of  his  face  immovable  as  a  mask. 


CHAP.  III.]         THE  VIEW  FROM  MONTORIO  27 

Don  Gaetano  lifted  his  hat  silently.  I  saw  no  smile  go 
with  that  brief  recognition.  The  carriages  passed  on 
their  several  ways ;  and  I  ventured  to  ask,  "  Who  is  the 
serious-looking  person?  For  him,  at  any  rate,  Carni- 
val is  over." 

"  That  is  my  step-brother  Camillo,"  said  the  Don, 
mastering  some  obscure  emotion,  "  my  elder  brother. 
As  you  remark,  a  grave  Signer,  a  politician  and  a 
New  Roman.  He  married  the  daughter  of  the  present 
Prime  Minister,  Scanza,  five  or  six  years  ago ;  but  they 
have  no  children." 

Consequently,  I  thought,  were  Principe  Camillo  to 
die,  the  title  of  Roccaforte,  and  whatever  estates  went 
with  it,  would  devolve  on  Gaetano.  Did  the  explana- 
tion of  their  coldness  lurk  in  those  fears  and  hopes? 
"  They  have  no  children  "  must  signify,  sure  enough,  to 
the  younger  brother,  "May  they  never  have  any!" 
Gaetano's  beautiful  face,  clouded  over  with  silent  fury, 
was  something  to  contemplate  just  then.  Medusa 
looked  out  from  it,  and  the  promise  of  death.  "  You 
strange  creature,"  I  whispered  in  my  heart  as  we  tore 
on  our  way  to  the  bridge  through  long  and  dismal  al- 
leys, "  how  you  strike  our  conventions  and  formal  vir- 
tues dead  with  one  stroke!  You  would  kill  that 
brother,  I  see  it  in  your  swarthy  paleness — kill,  and  not 
repent."  I  had  stumbled,  it  would  seem,  into  a  Pagan 
under-world,  where  these  two  figures  wrestled  in  a 
strangling  combat. 

The  carriage  raced  along,  tore  across  the  Ponte 
Garibaldi,  and  ascended  to  the  Janiculum  at  a  hand 
gallop.  When  we  had  reached  San  Pietro  in  Montorio, 
the  Prince  dismounted,  threw  the  reins  to  a  shabbily 
dressed  fellow — one  of  the  many  loitering  at  all  corners 
and  byways,  and  wherever  there  is  an  open  space  or  a 
flight  of  steps,  in  this  beggar-haunted  capital — and  in- 
vited me  to  gaze  out  over  the  parapet  on  Rome,  under 


28  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

an  evening  sky.  "  Do  you  remember  it  all  ?  "  he  asked 
me  with  a  tranquil  air,  as  though  the  furious  driving 
had  done  him  good.  "  Cardinal  Ligario  gave  me  to 
understand  that  you  lived  here  in  your  boyhood ;  and 
my  own  ear  assures  me  that  you  speak  our  language  as 
we  Romans  do."  So  handsome  a  compliment,  though 
I  secretly  believed  in  its  justice,  threw  me  off  my  bal- 
ance; I  did  not  reply  immediately,  and  when  I  did, 
memory  had  given  my  reflections  a  sadder  cast. 

"  I  spent  nearly  two  years  in  Italy  with  my  mother; 
she  came  in  search  of  health,  and  died  at  Venice,  when 
I  was  sixteen,  but  almost  as  many  years  have  passed 
since  then.  No,  I  don't  remember  those  frightful  new 
quarters  beyond  the  Colosseum,  near  St.  John  Lateran. 
We  used  to  stand  at  this  very  spot,  my  mother  and 
I ;  many  an  afternoon  we  drove  up  here,  and  we  would 
make  out  one  by  one  the  great  piles  of  ruin.  The 
Palatine  was  less  distinct  in  detail  then,  but  still  more 
suggestive  of  imperial  strength  and  mystery  with  its 
ilex  groves  about  it.  Is  not  your  Palazzo  Sorelli  down 
there,  by  the  Tiber,  of  which  we  cannot  get  a  glimpse 
from  this  point?" 

"  It  is  there,"  he  muttered,  stretching  his  right  hand 
below  the  parapet ;  "  see  the  block  of  darkness  it  makes 
on  the  edge  of  what  was  formerly  the  Ghetto.  Our 
castle  during  six  hundred  years;  never  once  taken  by 
assault ;  part  of  it  pulled  to  the  ground  when  the  Pier- 
leoni,  those  villainous  filthy  dogs,  had  crept  inside  it, 
and  at  last" — his  voice  shook,  and  he  drew  himself  up 
in  transcendent  disdain — "  sold — sold  by  a  spendthrift 
and  a  madman — to  the  cousins  that  have  it  still,  so 
much  as  is  not  fallen  into  those  rubbish  heaps."  He 
was  not  minding  me  as  he  spoke :  I  had  passed  from 
his  thoughts. 

"You  will  recover  it  some  day,  Principe,"  was 
my  soothing  answer,  given  at  random,  without  more 


CHAP.  III.]         THE  VIEW  FROM   MONTORIO  29 

meaning  than  often  attaches  to  a  dialogue  in  which  one 
of  the  speakers  yields  to  his  emotion  and  the  other 
serves  as  a  sounding-board  or  echo  unconcerned. 
Gaetano  wheeled  round  to  examine  my  expression, 
with  the  same  look  of  Medusa  that  I  had  perceived 
when  he  crossed  Prince  Camillo's  barouche.  It  satis- 
fied him,  for  he  took  my  hand  with  a  boyishly  grace- 
ful gesture,  and  carried  it  to  his  lips.  "  Well  said,  well 
said,  Signer  Ardente,"  he  cried,  in  a  sudden  flush  of 
high  spirits.  "  Give  me  good  luck,  and  invidia  crepa, 
envy  go  hang! " —  flinging  away  my  hand  no  less  impet- 
uously than  he  had  seized  it.  "  Here,  on  this  spot, 
overshadowed  with  one  of  the  darkest  crimes  that  ever 
profaned  our  history  —  here,  in  the  presence  of  the 
headless  corpse  of  Beatrice  Cenci — buried  within  this 
church — I  accept  the  omen.  We  will  have  our  Palazzo 
Sorelli  again,  and  mine  is  the  arm  that  shall  recover 
it." 

I  was  taken  aback  with  the  unexpected  stroke  of  this 
awful  reminiscence.  I  knew  Beatrice  had  been  interred 
before  the  high  altar  of  San  Pietro  in  Montorio ;  and 
history  associated  the  crimes  of  Francesco  Cenci  with 
the  penetralia  of  the  palace  that  reared  its  gloomy  walls 
in  our  front.  The  Cenci  and  the  Sorelli  were  kinsmen. 
From  this  hour — so  fantastic  are  the  tricks  which  asso- 
ciation of  ideas  will  bring  in  its  train — I  detected  a  far- 
off  resemblance  to  that  unhappy  girl,  the  Mary  Stuart 
of  the  modern  Roman  chronicles,  in  Gaetano  himself; 
there  was  such  a  blending  in  his  pale  olive  features  of 
sweetness  with  reserve  and  of  melancholy  with  enthu- 
siasm ;  his  searching,  meditative  eyes  put  so  wide  a  dis- 
tance between  him  and  those  whom  he  addressed.  I 
was  drawn,  repelled,  overcome,  occupied  in  my  inner- 
most soul  with  this  stranger,  whom  I  could  not  help 
loving.  These  are  not  every-day  English  sentiments, 
but  what  care  I?  Probably  a  spirit  incarnate  in  such 


30  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

a  shape  as  Gaetano  is  not  every-day  English  either. 
That  he  had  broken  out,  dramatically  if  you  please, 
into  words  at  once  foreboding  and  superstitious,  affected 
me  with  some  of  his  own  rapture.  "  I  prophesy  all 
good  things,  Don  Gaetano,  to  you  and  yours,"  was  the 
cry  that  escaped  me.  Our  eyes  met.  The  clock  of 
San  Pietro  rang  out  some  chime,  marking  the  half-hour ; 
from  that  second  you  may  date  our  friendship. 

We  walked  backward  and  forward,  the  carriage  keep- 
ing pace  with  us,  and  we  read  the  city  and  the  land- 
scape as  in  a  map  outspread.  The  biting  tramontana 
had  swept  the  heavens  of  their  last  vapors;  under  a 
crystal  cope  three  several  distances  revealed  themselves. 
Near  at  hand,  Rome,  in  a  shading  of  quiet  gray,  yellow, 
brown,  indescribably  blended — a  confusion  of  roofs  and 
terraces,  with  churches,  towers,  columns  all  huddled  in 
a  mass  of  insignificant  buildings ;  there  is  no  plan  visi- 
ble, and  nothing  is  easier  than  to  see  with  the  mind's 
eye  that  these  erections  stand  upon  ruins,  and  of  ruins 
have  been  made.  Such  is  the  foreground.  Travel  be- 
yond it  to  the  middle  distance — a  Vega,  green  as  the 
water-meadows  of  England,  under  this  declining  sun, 
with  solitary  houses  scattered  over  its  surface,  and  a 
line  of  arches  soliciting  the  attention.  That  is  the  sav- 
age, fever-stricken  Campagna,  which  Don  Gaetano, 
while  we  fix  our  gaze  upon  it,  calls  "  la  madre  delle 
cose  grandi,  morte," — the  mother  of  great  dead  things. 
It  stretches  out,  and  as  the  sky  lightens  with  sunset, 
takes  us  on  till  we  mark,  as  in  a  solid  photograph,  the 
ravines  and  pathways  on  the  Sabine  ranges  above 
Tivoli,  the  snows  which  have  lately  fallen  on  Monte 
Gennaro,  and,  double-pinnacled  behind  this  again,  a 
white  apparition  which  we  know  to  be  Monte  Velino, 
away  in  the  central  Apennines,  north  of  the  Lago  di 
Fucino.  My  companion  points  to  an  opening  between 
the  Sabine  Hills  and  the  finely  molded  characteristic 


CHAP.  III.]         THE  VIEW  FROM  MONTORIO  31 

outline  of  the  Latin  group  which  rises  close  to  our 
right  hand.  "  Turn  that  way  by  Colonna  on  its  lowly 
hilltop,  in  the  plain,"  he  half  whispers,  "  and  you  will 
be  on  one  of  the  roads  to  Roccaforte,  a  steep  ascent, 
but  delightful.  You  ride,  of  course,  like  all  English- 
men— and  shoot?" 

"  I  ride,  and  shoot,  and  when  I  can't  get  exercise  in 
that  way,  I  fence  as  an  indoor  amusement." 

"  Bene,  you  shall  do  all  three  at  the  Rocca.  We  are 
sportsmen  in  the  Pontine  Marshes,  and  riding  is  our 
way  of  getting  about  in  the  Volscians.  Have  you 
hunted  the  wild  boar?" 

I  shook  my  head.  "  Never,  but  I  have  eaten  him  in 
my  time  here;  apro  dolce  was  a  favorite  dish  on  high 
days  and  holidays  with  our  cook." 

"  We  will  let  you  kill  him  and  eat  him  again,  and 
give  you  Falernian  to  wash  him  down.  But  listen,  the 
Ave  is  sounding.  We  must  mount  and  take  the  Pas- 
segiata  Margherita  quickly." 

Before  we  entered  the  carriage,  however,  Gaetano 
stopped  to  take  off  his  hat,  cross  himself  devoutly,  and 
recite  his  prayer.  I  like  that  silent  pause  which,  in  a 
city  so  crowded  as  Rome,  comes  when  the  Ave  clangs 
from  its  multitudinous  towers,  and  there  is  a  brief  still- 
ness— the  wing  of  an  archangel  resting  over  streets  and 
squares,  and  casting  a  lightsome  shadow  ere  it  passes 
on.  We  were  in  a  softened  mood  as  we  began  our 
course  along  the  Janiculum ;  neither  of  us  spoke,  and 
while  we  drove  slowly,  with  eyes  turned  to  the  view  on 
our  right,  there  came  the  transformation  from  a  pure, 
pearly  whiteness  to  a  glory,  swift  as  lightning,  of  violet 
and  purple,  in  which  city,  plain,  and  mountains  were 
caught  up.  I  may  compare  it  to  nothing  so  much  as 
an  infinitely  fine  veil — a  water  spread  out,  or  a  flame 
at  its  thinnest — but  impenetrable  as  gleaming  metal, 
the  background  to  a  picture  distinct  in  all  its  lines  and 


32  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

masses,  with  snows  faintly  blushing  in  a  distance  that 
ran  up  to  heaven.  Gaetano  had  other  thoughts.  He 
reined  the  horse  in,  and  pointing  with  his  whip,  cried 
nervously,  "  See,  see — the  crimson  book.  I  have 
watched  its  leaves  open  thus  a  hundred  times  on  this 
terrace — always  crimson,  the  Apocalypse  of  Rome.  It 
is  the  city  of  blood — blood  of  the  Kings,  the  Consuls, 
the  Emperors,  the  Martyrs — blood  of  the  nobles  and 
the  nations — blood  in  the  palace,  temple,  church,  castle, 
market-place — blood  in  prison  and  on  the  scaffold — 
blood  washed  in  blood.  You  do  not  know,"  he  con- 
tinued, still  in  this  high  strain,  "  the  motto  of  the 
Sorelli.  It  is  Rome's  war-cry,  '  Sangue  lava  sangue ' 
— blood  will  have  blood.  From  the  Colosseum  to 
Nero's  gardens,  through  which  we  are  driving,  always, 
always  it  is  the  old  story — Rome  must  have  blood. 
Look  up  to  it  in  the  sky  above  your  head ;  behold  it 
hanging  like  a  purple  winding-sheet  out  of  heaven, 
this  terrible  city  wrapt  in  it  with  all  her  treasures  and 
her  trophies.  '  Sangue  lava  sangue.'  The  crimson 
book  of  our  greatness,  our  pride,  and  our  doom." 

The  sanguine  sunset  had  vanished,  swiftly  as  it  came, 
almost  before  Gaetano  was  recovered  from  his  disquiet- 
ing rhapsody.  "  You  nourish  imaginations  that  should 
be  stifled  in  their  birth,"  I  said,  laying  my  hand  upon 
his  shoulder.  But  still  he  muttered,  "  '  Sangue  lava 
sangue  ' — our  pride  and  our  doom."  It  was  an  in- 
grained superstition  with  him,  which  no  sermonizing 
of  mine  could  sponge  away.  I  must  admit  the  sym- 
bolism touched  a  fiber  in  myself.  Who,  with  a  sky  so 
portentous  outspread  before  his  eyes,  but  would  see  in 
it,  perhaps  too  often,  the  crimson  book  of  fate,  with  all 
the  Roman  murders  staining  its  leaves?  How  much 
more  kindly  seemed  the  gray  twilight  which  fell  as  our 
carriage  entered  the  avenue  at  last,  and  we  moved  be- 
tween tall  lines  of  darkling  foliage  up  and  down,  while 


CHAP.  III.]         THE  VIEW  FROM  MONTORIO  33 

St.  Peter's  strode  into  the  night,  a  huge  giant  of  stone, 
behind  which  the  sun  had  disappeared. 

We  were  almost  in  its  shadow  when  a  couple  of  out- 
riders advanced  smartly  toward  us,  and  at  no  great 
distance  behind  them  a  solitary  horseman,  wearing  a 
cloak  which  hung  down  to  his  saddle.  Don  Gaetano 
pulled  up  at  the  appearance  of  the  outriders,  and  bared 
his  head  when  the  cloaked  horseman  rode  past.  I 
knew  it  was  the  King.  But  I  was  astonished  to  per- 
ceive, drawn  up  on  one  side,  stiff  and  silent  as  on  par- 
ade, beneath  the  tall  trees,  a  line  of  ecclesiastics  in 
scarlet  cassocks  falling  to  their  feet,  not  one  of  whom 
had  lifted  his  three-cornered  hat,  or  made  the  least 
sign  of  obeisance  at  the  royal  approach. 

"Who  are  those  churchmen?"  I  asked,  as  soon  as 
we  had  got  into  our  pace  again.  "  Did  they  know  it 
was  the  King?  " 

Gaetano  laughed.  "  Oh,  perfectly  !  They  are  for- 
eigners—  Germans  and  Hungarians — who  come  here  to 
study  and  be  priested.  No  one  ever  witnessed  a  salu- 
tation of  theirs  to  the  new  rulers.  Nay,"  he  went  on 
with  a  fierce  and  yet  noble  gesture,  "  neither  did  my 
uncovered  head  do  reverence  to  the  King  of  Italy.  I 
saluted  the  House  of  Savoy.  It  is  a  line  which  has 
reckoned  heroes  and  kept  the  keys  of  the  Alps  against 
all  comers.  For  that  I  do  it  homage.  But  I  cannot 
respect  the  man  or  his  descendants  who  broke  into  the 
Quirinal  with  a  blacksmith's  crowbar." 

"  So  those  are  Germans,"  I  mused;  "the  last  linger- 
ing squadron  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire.  They  will 
not  own  the  native  monarch.  Do  they  watch  and  wait 
until  a  Kaiser  from  beyond  the  mountains  shall  be 
crowned  on  the  slab  of  crimson  porphyry,  hard  by  the 
great  door  of  St.  Peter's?" 

"  I  hate  the  Tedeschi,"  cried  Gaetano.  "When  did 
they  bring  us  aught  save  misfortune?  We  have  had 


34  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

enough  of  their  Kaisers.     Let  them  leave  us  Romans 
to  ourselves." 

The  scarlet  regiment  had  tramped  along  in  the  wake 
of  the  solitary  horseman.  As  we  turned  in  our  seats 
to  look  after  them,  the  shadow  of  the  mighty  dome, 
immeasurable  now  and  huge  as  an  eclipse,  spread  round 
the  lonely  figure  which  seemed  to  melt  into  its  depths 
and  be  lost,  while  the  city  put  on  its  cloak  of  darkness. 
How  many  generations  had  gone  down  to  the  same 
fate !  The  Queen  of  the  World,  Persephone,  reigning 
over  oblivion,  her  brow  girt  with  poppies,  sat  there  in 
majestic  sorrow  from  age  to  age ;  and  empires  and  dy- 
nasties, nations  and  rulers,  were  drawn  into  her  em- 
brace, forgot  their  own  history,  felt  the  magic  swoon 
come  over  them  as  Lethe  touched  their  lips.  Could 
the  lonely  horseman  from  the  Alps  resist  that  witching 
charm  ?  We  sat  peering  after  him  into  the  night ;  then 
roused  ourselves,  and  drove  silently  toward  the  electric 
glare  which  was  beginning  to  make  immense  spaces  of 
illumination,  with  shadows  correspondingly  deep,  be- 
tween the  Bridge  of  Sant'  Angelo  and  the  Pincian  Hill. 


CHAPTER    IV 

WHO    LOSES    PAYS 

WHEN  I  had  told  my  story  to  this  point — and 
you  good  creatures  still  sat  over  your  embroid- 
ery, crochet-work,  lace-mending,  or  what  other  pretense 
of  the  female  mind  answers  to  a  man's  puffing  away  at 
his  cigarette  in  hours  of  idleness — just  as  I  was  arriv- 
ing at  the  tragedy  which  has  blown  me  up  hither  in  a 
whirlwind,  the  storm  swept  off  to  Heaven  knows  where, 
the  sky  came  in  at  all  windows,  an  ocean  of  blue,  and  I 
flung  aside  my  pen,  and  away  went  I  upon  the  hill 
peaks  avoiding  the  Piazza  of  Roccaforte.  No  more 
slaving  over  a  desk  for  me  in  such  crystal  weather! 
Rain,  sun,  and  wind  had  washed  the  whole  world, 
making  it  a  diamond  with  ten  thousand  fresh  colors, 
and  I  must  be  out  and  taste  the  divine  air.  Now  an- 
other interval  has  come  and  gone;  a  second  strange 
thing  has  befallen  me;  and  while  my  left  arm  is  ban- 
daged, I  manoeuver  with  a  pen  as  well  as  I  can.  Ah, 
Madonna  Laura,  you  turn  pale ;  I  know  your  ways. 
Tush,  my  romantic  sorella  cugina;  we  are  past  our 
nursery  rhymes.  If  the  boy  will  get  into  scrapes,  let 
him  pay  for  them.  Besides,  my  arm  is  not  broken ;  I 
really  did  not  lose  above  an  ounce  or  two  of  blood.  .  .  . 
Now  for  a  bit  more  of  my  adventure.  The  scene  is 
Rome,  not  prosy  London ;  time,  end  of  the  nineteenth 
century;  personages — but  that  's  telling!  Suffice  it, 

35 


36  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BooK  I. 

Arden  Massiter  is  one  of  them.  The  rest  will  walk  up 
as  they  are  prompted  from  the  cockpit  under  the  boards. 
You  remember,  Miss  Laura,  that  the  reason  of  my 
abiding  at  Giovanni  Finocchio's,  instead  of  following 
Gaetano  with  the  dog-like  friendship  which  I  had  con- 
ceived for  that  olive-skinned  hero,  was  because  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  to  an  interview  with  Tiberio,  and 
Tiberio  had  to  be  found.  What  was  his  full  name  be- 
sides Tiberio?  "Eh,  Giovanni!  Can  you  inform  me 
how  Tiberio  calls  himself  at  this  time  of  day  ?  Has  he 
kept  his  London  name,  or  exchanged  it  for  half  a 
dozen  more?  He  stalked  about  in  our  meetings  as 
Tiberio  Sforza;  I  used  partly  to  please,  and  as  much 
to  enrage  him  by  taking  off  my  hat  to  the  Duke  of 
Milan.  Has  his  Ducal  Highness  abdicated?" 

But  Giovanni  looked  down  and  then  aside,  with  a 
canine  reluctance  to  face  me. 

"  Talk  that  way,  Signor,  and  you  will  drown  in  a  glass 
of  water,"  he  grumbled  at  last.  "  Oh !  Madonna,  these 
English!  Bold  as  lions,  stiffnecked  as  mules.  Avoid 
Tiberio  Sforza,  I  entreat — duke  or  no  duke — the  devil 
roast  him  among  his  own  chestnuts !  When  you  see  the 
mascalzone,  the  ruffian,  the  barattiere,  it  will  be  time  to 
ask  his  name.  Half  a  dozen?  a  hundred,  rather!  But 
I  say  nothing.  One  kneads  the  maccaroni,  another  eats 
it.  Che  mi  fa  a  me,  sto  Tiberio  ?  Send  him  to  Cortona ; 
that  will  be  best  for  you  :  make  not  yourself  a  Venetian 
ass." 

My  little  friend's  rudeness  betrayed  the  depth  of  his 
fear.  As  I  did  not  answer  these  lively  proverbs  and 
reiterated  admonitions,  he  took  me  round  the  knees 
where  I  was  sitting  in  his  little  saloon  and  began  to 
whimper,  "  My  adorable,  you  were  good  to  me  at 
Londra ;  be  not  wicked  now.  Go  as  you  stand  to  this 
big  devil  of  a  Tiberio,  he  will  assassinate  you — not  in 
casa  sua,  oh  no,  he  has  plenty  of  salt  in  his  brains — 


CHAP.  IV.]  WHO  LOSES  PAYS  37 

but  here  in  my  most  unlucky  house,  or  outside  some 
gate,  and  you  will  be  brought  to  me  cold  and  frozen. 
Then  what  shall  I  do  ?  Our  customers  like  not  a  house 
where  la  gente  has  been  refrigerated.  Eh,  no,  they 
have  good  reason.  And  Giovanni  will  be  ruined  to 
please  you." 

He  was  actually  sobbing.  I  have  not  analyzed  the 
tears  which  an  Italian  sheds  as  easily  as  he  smiles ;  but 
I  suspect  they  contain  a  rare  amount  of  gypsum  or 
plaster  of  Paris,  they  dry  so  quickly.  Nevertheless, 
Giovanni  touched  my  feelings,  and  I  could  not  argue 
his  terrors  away,  for  Tiberio  was  much  better  known 
to  him  than  to  me,  and  in  all  this  consternation  there 
might  lurk  some  acquaintance  with  facts  which  I  had 
yet  to  ascertain.  A  thought  struck  me. 

"  Come,  you  great  simpleton,"  said  I,  patting  him  on 
his  brown  cheek,  "  there  are  more  ways  than  one  of 
playing  the  spy.  Tiberio,  when  I  walked  and  talked 
with  him,  was  an  honest,  outspoken  anarchist;  but  a 
dreamer,  not  an  assassin.  Why  do  you  fix  that  label 
on  his  coat-tails?" 

"  Why  has  the  devil  red  eyes?"  asked  Finocchio. 
"  But  take  warning,  Signor  Ardente ;  I  will  not  speak 
any  more  of  him,  not  if  you  hoisted  me  on  the  cord. 
Basta,  my  mouth  is  sewed  up." 

"  Be — very  well.  But  you  can  unsew  it  to  teach  me 
where  I  may  get  a  disguise." 

Instantly  Giovanni  was  another  man.  His  eyes 
flashed ;  his  tongue  was  loosened.  "  What  will  you  be, 
a  friar,  a  contadino,  a  prelate? — no,  you  would  not 
sacrifice  your  ebony  whiskers — but  name  the  person,  I 
can  buy  you  any  vestments,  old  or  new,  of  all  cuts  and 
colors,  in  the  Via  dei  Giubbonari,  and  cheap  too. 
Trust  me;  I  know  how  to  make  a  bargain."  He  had 
entered  into  my  plan  with  the  greatest  alacrity,  as  if  it 
were  a  pantomime. 


38  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

"  I  will  be  none  of  all  these,  Messer  Vanni.  What 
I  ask  you  to  get  me  is  very  simple.  I  quite  agree  that, 
in  this  English  make-up,  to  thrust  myself  in  where  his 
Ducal  Highness  is  holding  council  with  his  ruffians  in 
the  Via  dei  Serpenti,  might  mean  mischief.  A  dreamy 
anarchist  in  Soho,  he  will  be,  for  what  I  can  tell,  some- 
thing like  a  conspirator  in  the  Rione  Monti.  But 
though  I  used  to  act  fairly  well  in  our  private  theatri- 
cals, I  am  not  going  to  make  an  ass  of  myself.  A  fine 
Capuccino  or  contadino  they  would  think  me,  with  my 
Anglo-Saxon  limbs.  No,  no ;  buy  me  at  some  second- 
hand shop — it  will  never  do  to  put  on  brand  new 
clothes — the  ordinary  brown  suit  of  which  I  see  speci- 
mens by  the  dozen  in  every  Italian  crowd,  and  add  to 
them  the  sugar-loaf  hat,  with  a  long  black  cloak  such 
as  people  wear  in  the  evenings.  Dress  me  out  like  a 
common  individual  of  the  mezzo  ceto :  not  rich,  not 
poor,  not  distinguished  by  a  hair  from  fifty  thousand 
others.  Do  such  frequent  the  Trattoria  Ranieri  ?  " 

"  But  yes,  on  account  of  its  excellent  wine,"  said 
Giovanni,  expostulating,  and  at  the  same  time  encour- 
aging with  his  shoulders.  "  It  has  a  name  for  wine 
and  fritters.  Music,  also,  some  dancing;  everything 
proper.  With  money  you  can  buy  the  moon." 

/'Go,  then,  and  buy  it,  or  as  much  as  we  want,  in 
the  Giubbonari,"  said  I,  "  but  I  wish  you  could  pur- 
chase new  second-hand  clothes,  Gianni  mio.  That  is 
the  worst  of  my  masquerading.  Cicerinella's  cat,  a 
clean  animal,  will  be  sorry  for  me." 

"  Eh,  we  will  fumigate  them  with  sulphur,"  he  ex- 
claimed, laughing.  "  How  much  will  the  Signer  spend 
on  his  costume?  " 

I  left  it  to  him,  knowing  that  he  would  take  his  per- 
quisite —  the  palm-oil,  without  which  nothing  goes 
smooth  in  Italy — and  the  course  of  the  day  beheld  me 
transmuted  into  a  new  skin ;  literally  so,  for  we  judged 


CHAP.  IV.]  WHO  LOSES   PAYS  39 

it  expedient  to  darken  my  complexion,  which  is  by  no 
means  fair,  and  my  hands  became  a  beautiful  brown. 
At  the  same  time  we  disguised  the  English  cut  of  my 
hair  with  a  peruke,  as  well  as  thickened  my  eyebrows 
with  a  little  coloring.  I  felt,  when  all  this  was  accom- 
plished, hot,  strange,  and  uncomfortable.  And  then  a 
curious  thing  happened.  I  was  always  fond  of  talking 
Italian,  as  you  have  reason  to  know,  remembering  my 
burlesque  goings  on  in  that  language  for  your  delecta- 
tion; and  now  when  the  Northern  skin  was  shed,  the 
wig  adjusted,  the  cloak  hanging  in  right  Trastevere 
fashion  from  my  shoulder,  I  became  the  man  of  my 
get-up,  felt  the  genuine  dramatic  instinct,  pitched  John 
Bull  out  o'  window,  and  took  my  heavy-headed  bam- 
boo cane  in  hand  as  if  I  were  managing  a  damascened 
rapier.  Even  Einocchio  was,  or  affected  to  be,  in  ad- 
miration at  the  sight.  "  Veramente,"  he  exclaimed 
again  and  again,  walking  round  me  and  giving  my 
habiliments  the  finishing  touch,  "  a  comedian  of  the 
first  water!  Where  is  the  Signer  Inglese  now?  Gone, 
drowned,  buried !  Acting  the  rest  will  be  to  you  as  '  a 
peeled  pear,  fall  down  my  throat.'  But,  a  moment, 
Signer — speak,  speak  always  the  good  Roman ;  you 
have  it,  words  and  accent.  No  Trastevere!  They 
would  catch  you ;  it  is  hard ;  I  speak  it  not  my- 
self." 

These  were  words  of  wisdom ;  and  I  promised  to 
obey.  When  the  bright  lights  of  the  evening  had  died 
into  a  dim  violet  heaven,  and  the  foot-paths  lay  dark,  a 
tall,  if  not  gaunt  and  grim,  figure  was  sauntering  slowly 
along  through  the  streets  of  Rome,  holding  before  its 
face  the  skirt  of  a  tragic-looking  mantle  from  time  to 
time,  and  reconnoitering  as  in  an  enemy's  neighborhood. 
Creeping  round  corners,  twisting  back  on  his  trail,  and 
appearing  to  lose  himself  a  dozen  times  over,  this  pil- 
grim of  the  night  at  length  emerged  into  the  Via  dei 


4o  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

Serpenti,  after  a  course  which  well  deserved  the  name 
in  its  spiral  obliquities. 

The  Street  of  Serpents  is  neither  clean,  nor  well 
lighted,  nor  picturesque.  Its  lofty  houses,  crammed 
with  life  and  poverty,  lonesome  though  side  by  side, 
grimy,  foul,  drab-colored,  without  a  single  token  of 
noble  architecture,  and  as  uniform  as  a  London  back 
alley,  stretch  on  from  the  opera-like  frivolities  of  the 
Via  Nazionale  to  the  Colosseum.  It  has  the  wasted 
air  of  Alsatia.  Here,  long  ago,  ran  the  noisy  street 
called  Suburra,  with  its  taverns  haunted  by  soldiers, 
gladiators,  lost  women,  and  degraded  men,  of  which  that 
splendid  old  Salvator  Rosa — whom  we  term  Juvenal — 
has  drawn  us  some  lively  sketches.  Many  trattorie 
stood  open,  inviting  the  passers-by,  out  of  streets  now 
struck  chill  and  swept  by  a  piercing  wind,  to  take 
shelter  in  their  warmth  and  brightness.  But  few  pe- 
destrians were  abroad.  The  tall,  gaunt  personage  went 
to  and  fro,  peering  up  at  names  over  narrow  portals 
which  baffled  his  eyesight;  and  he  had  traveled  down 
three  fourths  of  the  long  thoroughfare  when  the  Trat- 
toria Ranieri,  more  conspicuous  than  most,  shone 
across  his  footsteps.  He  pulled  his  cloak  straight, 
entered  boldly,  and  taking  a  seat  half-way  between  the 
door  and  the  raised  platform  at  the  farther  end,  de- 
manded a  flask  of  red  wine. 

The  trattoria  was  crowded.  A  vivid  little  piece  of 
tomfoolery  on  the  stage  between  two  girls  in  peasant 
costume  and  a  sportsman  who  had  lost  his  way  held 
the  audience  spellbound.  No  one  had  leisure  to  ob- 
serve the  last  comer,  and  the  wooden  pillar  against 
which  he  happened  to  be  reclining  shielded  his  features 
when  he  began  to  sip  his  Marino.  Still  more  effective 
was  the  heavy,  unpleasant  tobacco-smoke  that  rose 
from  a  forest  of  cigars  and  filled  with  cloud  every  nook 
and  crevice  of  the  trattoria. 


CHAP.  IV.]  WHO  LOSES  PAYS  41 

It  was,  I  must  allow,  an  admirable  scene.  The  foggy 
lights  magnified,  and  at  the  same  time  softened  the  de- 
tails of  a  picture  such  as,  if  you  did  not  know  it  was 
the  interior  of  a  Roman  eating-house,  would  certainly 
have  been  styled  Dutch  or  Flemish.  "  Boors  Drink- 
ing "  you  might  have  written  underneath  it.  One  side 
of  the  room,  fitted  up  with  bottles  of  every  shape  and 
size,  gleamed  furtively  at  you,  sparkled  on  the  sly,  and 
occasionally  winked  out  a  sudden  flash  of  glory,  to  be 
quenched  the  next  instant.  Thanks  to  the  universal 
haze,  the  stage-front,  with  its  gaudy  painting,  drew 
further  away,  until  you  began  to  dream  it  might  be  an 
opening  into  some  unknown  fairyland.  The  heads  and 
faces  of  a  curiously  mixed  assembly  wavered  through 
the  smoke,  were  not  still  one  instant,  but  came  and 
went  as  by  the  uncertain  touches  of  an  artist  sketching 
them.  And  on  the  tables  the  glasses,  plates,  decanters, 
fruits — with  hands  stretched  out  above  them  or  heads 
bent  in  rapid  conversation — made  an  olla  podrida  of 
impressions,  uncertain  but  most  vivid,  which  the  eye 
took  in  with  delighted  interest,  but  not  even  Teniers 
could  have  reproduced  in  its  dull  brilliancy.  There 
was  plenty  of  movement  now,  in  spite  of  the  attention 
which  the  living  marionettes  on  the  stage  received  from 
an  enthusiastic  audience.  I  studied  these  as  closely  as 
the  smoky  radiance  would  permit.  No  Tiberio  was 
there.  Would  he,  indeed,  be  so  much  an  habitue  of 
this  cafe  chantant — for  it  was  nothing  else — as  Finoc- 
chio  had  hinted  ? 

A  mixed  company !  Men,  like  myself,  of  the  mezzo 
ceto,  decent  in  dress  and  behavior;  others  of  the  work- 
ing-class, rough  and  unpolished,  wearing  no  holiday 
garments ;  country  folk  in  the  hideous  costume  of  the 
Roman  rustic;  and  among  the  many  young  girls  not 
one  above  the  lowest  rank.  What  should  Tiberio  be 
doing  here  ?  I  knew  him  for  a  man  of  a  certain  culti- 


42  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

vation,  fastidious  in  his  outward  show,  in  some  sort  a 
gentleman;  yet  I  could  fancy  that  he  would  descend 
from  his  own  level  to  make  converts  to  the  creed  which 
he  professed.  But  there  was  no  sign  of  political  dis- 
cussion in  the  trattoria.  Men  ate  and  drank  and 
smoked  peaceably.  As  the  tables  were  cleared  and 
the  hours  moved  on,  packs  of  cards  were  brought  out ; 
the  ivory  cubes  began  to  rattle;  most  of  the  girls 
slipped  away,  the  marionettes  made  their  bow  and  dis- 
appeared into  the  thickening  haze.  I  continued  to  sip 
my  red  wine,  exhausted  all  the  newspapers  within 
reach,  felt  sleepy  and  absurd,  and  was  almost  annoyed 
(so  perverse  a  humor  comes  while  waiting)  that  no  one 
took  the  least  notice  of  me.  After  several  hours  I  gave 
up  the  hope  of  seeing  Tiberio  that  night.  I  left 
Ranieri's ;  a  brisk  walk  round  the  Colosseum  revived  me ; 
and  I  went  to  bed  promising  myself  better  luck  next  time. 

No,  not  next  time,  nor  yet  the  next.  On  four  con- 
secutive nights  I  ventured,  always  taking  the  same  pre- 
cautions, into  a  danger  that  grew  more  formidable 
because  it  gave  no  token  of  its  existence.  I  joked  and 
flouted  Finocchio — he  was  playing  me  a  scurvy  trick, 
and  I  should  advertise  for  my  lost  Tiberio  in  the  "  Tri- 
buna"  or  "Don  Chischiotte."  His  panic  increased. 
When  I  had  explored  the  trattoria  three  several  times, 
he  begged  me  in  the  name  of  all  saints  and  angels,  of 
San  Gennaro  and  Sant'  Andrea  and  the  ever  blessed 
Mother  of  God,  to  go  there  no  more.  But  I  was  de- 
termined to  run  my  Tiberio  down.  And  Saturday 
night  beheld  me,  with  my  cloak,  my  fiaschetto,  and  my 
heavy-headed  bamboo,  reclining  against  the  pillar  and 
enjoying  my  Teniers'  picture  through  the  haze. 

Hitherto,  I  had  spoken  only  monosyllables,  or  the 
shortest  phrases,  in  reply  to  the  civilities  of  the  bottega, 
while  to  others  I  said  nothing  at  all.  To-night  the 
crowd  was  greater  than  ever;  Saturday  is  pay-day  in 


CHAP.  IV.]  WHO  LOSES  PAYS  43 

Rome,  as  in  England,  with  the  inevitable  consequence 
of  more  spending  and  more  drinking;  here,  too,  was  a 
little  more  gambling.  I  sat  and  watched,  wondering  if 
I  were  not  the  object  of  suspicion  in  my  turn.  An 
hour  or  two  passed.  It  was  getting  late,  and  the  smoke 
rose  in  clouds  to  the  ceiling,  when  a  couple  of  young 
fellows — contadini,  by  their  appearance — came  and  sat 
in  front  of  me,  with  a  dirty  pack  of  cards  between 
them.  What  game  they  were  playing  I  knew  not. 
They  won  and  lost  respectively,  shuffled  and  cut,  and 
growled  a  jargon  which  I  had  never  heard  before ;  then, 
without  rhyme  or  reason,  as  I  thought,  began  to  raise 
their  voices,  to  argue  and  gesticulate,  and  at  last  to  wax 
furious.  Overturning  their  chairs,  they  sprang  to  their 
feet.  An  open  space  was  made  around  them  by  the 
sudden  retreat  of  their  neighbors  to  right  and  left;  but 
my  pillar  was  immovable,  and  so  was  I.  There  had 
been  a  great  hubbub  of  conversation  going  on;  these 
additional  sounds  made  no  more  impression  than  if 
they  were  thrown  out  in  a  storm ;  not  a  soul  minded ; 
and  I  felt  that  the  picture  of  still  life  had  got  quickened, 
when,  presto,  knives  were  flashing  in  the  air,  and  my 
two  young  men  seemed  in  deadly  combat. 

Still  the  assembly  regarded  not;  had  these  been 
swords,  I  should  have  said  it  was  a  fencing  match ;  but 
knives  meant  murder,  and  there  was  no  time  to  lose. 
In  a  dream  I  heard  the  words  which  now  decided  me. 
One  of  the  combatants  was  as  handsome  as  a  youthful 
Apollo ;  his  rival  was  a  shaggy  brute  with  the  mask  of 
a  satyr ;  and  from  those  hirsute  lips  I  caught  the  words, 
sickening  in  their  distinctness,  "  Adesso,  ti  taglio  la 
faccia "  ("  Now  I  will  slit  your  face ").  It  was  too 
much.  I  leaped  from  my  chair,  and  aiming  a  straight 
blow  with  my  cane  at  the  satyr's  forehead,  struck  him 
across  the  eyes ;  with  a  second  blow  I  had  floored  him 
on  the  bricks  of  the  trattoria. 


44  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BooK  I. 

An  immense  uproar  followed.  The  young  Apollo 
took  to  his  heels.  The  satyr  rose,  grasped  his  knife, 
and  came  at  me  like  a  demon,  howling  imprecations 
with  the  voice  of  a  town  bull.  He  had  his  knife,  and  I 
my  bamboo,  flexible  as  a  bit  of  steel  and  nearly  as 
hard.  I  drove  it  at  him  again,  striking  for  the  face  as 
my  only  chance.  He  rushed  forward ;  the  knife  grazed 
my  neck,  and  I  brought  down  my  weapon  sharply  on 
his  head  as  he  slipped  along  by  me.  This  time  he  fell 
and  did  not  rise.  But  before  I  could  control  my  hand 
or  my  feeling,  once  more  the  cane  descended — and  all 
my  passion  gave  it  momentum — on  the  prostrate  figure. 
I  was  in  a  sudden  blinding  of  rage,  wonderful  even  to 
myself.  The  villain  still  clutched  his  knife;  I  was 
stooping  to  unclasp  it  from  ringers  which  held  it  like  a 
vice,  when  two  carabinieri  passed  in,  and  the  trattoria 
was  emptied  by  the  simultaneous  flight  of  all  within  it 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

As  my  murderer  gave  no  sign  of  life,  beyond  the  red 
stream  which  was  flowing  from  his  mouth,  I  stood  up 
and  faced  the  carbineers.  Fine,  stalwart  fellows  they 
were,  grave  and  courteous,  well  disciplined,  and  appar- 
ently used  to  these  battles  of  the  coltellata,  or  fighting 
with  knives;  for  without  delay  they  took  hold  of  me 
and  demanded  my  weapons. 

"  Behold  all  the  weapon  I  have,"  was  my  answer, 
handing  over  the  bamboo,  which  they  carefully  ex- 
amined. 

"  It  weighs  uncommon  heavy  for  a  cane,"  said  one 
of  them.  "Is  it  loaded?  It  is  not  a  sword-stick?" 
eyeing  me  as  I  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  bottega,  from 
which  it  was  hopeless  to  think  of  escaping. 

"  It  is  simply  a  walking-stick  which  I  have  used  in 
self-defense,"  I  said  quietly.  "Stoop  to  this  gentle- 
man on  the  floor;  you  will  find  a  knife  between  his 
fingers." 


CHAP.  IV.]  WHO  LOSES  PAYS  45 

The  ruffian  lay  motionless,  bleeding  still,  but  with 
not  a  creature  near  him  except  myself  and  the  soldiers. 
Mine  host,  Ranieri,  seemed  lost  in  his  professional  duties 
behind  the  bar ;  the  two  or  three  waiters  who  had  not 
absconded  were  standing  silent,  as  far  off  as  they  could 
get,  in  a  brown  study  of  the  ceiling  or  the  floor.  One 
of  the  carbineers,  bending  down,  unclenched  the  closed 
fist  with  some  difficulty,  and  picking  up  the  knife  as 
it  dropped,  held  it  on  high.  A  few  streaks  of  blood 
were  on  its  surface,  which  the  guardian  of  the  law  con- 
templated, and  then,  turning  to  me,  remarked,  "  You 
are  wounded,  Signor,  in  the  neck.  Was  it  done  with 
this?" 

I  put  up  my  hand  to  my  collar,  and  drew  it  away 
wet.  "  It  is  a  mere  scratch,"  said  I.  "  Won't  you 
look  to  the  man?  He  may  bleed  to  death." 

"Not  he!"  was  the  cool  rejoinder;  "let  him  bleed. 
It  will  bring  him  round  as  well  as  if  a  doctor  had 
lanced  him»  But  did  he  strike  you  with  this  knife?" 

An  intense  stillness  in  the  air,  while  every  eye  was 
fixed  on  me,  left  a  tingling  sense  that  I  was  now  going 
down  into  deep  waters.  Should  I  charge  the  satyr 
with  assault,  what  would  be  the  consequence?  Penal 
servitude,  perhaps,  for  him,  as  he  richly  deserved ;  but 
for  me,  what  ?  Attendance  in  court,  unpleasant  cross- 
questioning,  the  appearance  of  being  caught  in  a  foolish 
or  mad  disguise,  and  the  spoiling  of  my  plans  as  well 
as  the  end  of  my  adventures.  No,  my  mind  was  soon 
made  up. 

"  It  is  not  worth  mentioning,"  I  said  with  an  air  of 
unconcern.  "  The  fellow  was  probably  drunk,  and 
meant  no  harm.  Certainly,  I  am  not  going  to  charge 
him." 

The  carbineers  looked  at  one  another.  Ranieri 
drew  a  long  breath ;  the  waiters  came  forward  out  of 
their  trance,  to  observe  me  more  closely. 


46  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BooK  I. 

"Here,  Ranieri,"  said  the  senior  officer,  "you  know 
this  contadino.  What  do  they  call  him?  Where  does 
he  come  from?" 

The  padrone  had  put  on  that  mask  of  Roman  sulki- 
ness  which  is  as  impenetrable  as  a  thunder-cloud.  But 
he  answered,  "  Eh,  Dio  mio,  where  does  he  come  from  ? 
Certainly,  yes,  I  have  seen  him  often.  What  is  he 
called?  He  is  called  Renzaccio — Big  Larry — and  he 
belongs — where  does  he  belong  to?" — with  a  ruminat- 
ing air  as  if  uncertain — "to  Cartena,  mi  pare." 

"Cartena!  "  returned  the  gendarme.  "  A  bad  pedi- 
gree, and  a  den  of  thieves.  He  is  no  great  shakes 
himself,  I  take  it." 

The  padrone  washed  his  hands  of  him.  "  Buon 
pezzo,  cattivo  pezzo  " — good  or  bad — it  was  all  one  to 
Ranieri.  Men  came  for  their  fiaschetto  and  their 
polenta;  that  was  what  concerned  him. 

"  Well,  Renzaccio,"  said  the  younger  man,  touching 
the  satyr  with  a  disdainful  boot,  "  you  have  broken  the 
law,  anyhow.  We  arrest  you  for  carrying  an  illegal 
weapon.  So  come  along." 

And  as  at  a  magic  invocation,  Renzaccio  unclosed 
his  villainous  cold  eyes,  staggered  to  his  feet,  and 
began  wiping  the  blood  away  which  had  streamed  from 
the  corner  of  his  mouth  on  shirt-collar  and  jacket.  His 
first  glance  was  toward  the  officer,  who  still  retained 
the  knife — an  ugly  looking  instrument  about  six  inches 
long,  as  thin  and  sharp  as  a  razor.  Taken  with  the 
manner,  as  our  legal  phrase  used  to  run,  it  was  hope- 
less for  the  culprit  to  make  a  defense.  But  he  glared 
upon  me,  with  drawn  eyebrows,  in  a  peculiarly  mena- 
cing fashion,  and  said  in  his  throat,  "  Why  don't  you 
take  him,  then  ?  He  tried  to  kill  me  with  that  life- 
preserver  of  his." 

"  It  is  not  forbidden  to  carry  a  stick,"  answered  the 
officer  coldly.  "  Come,  that  's  enough,"  putting  a  pair 


CHAP.  IV.]  WHO  LOSES  PAYS  47 

of  handcuffs  on  him,  and  then  addressing  me  once 
more,  "  You  make  no  charge  of  unlawful  wounding, 
Signer?  Look  well  to  it;  now  is  your  time." 

"I  make  none.  And  as  I  have  not  broken  any  law, 
I  wish  you  good  evening,  gentlemen." 

I  was  pushing  beside  them  to  the  door,  but  found 
myself  gently  stopped.  The  senior  officer  had  put  his 
hand  on  me.  "Your  name  and  address,"  he  said; 
"  we  cannot  allow  you  to  leave  until  it  is  given." 

Here  was  a  quandary !  What  a  pretty  pickle  I  had 
thrown  myself  into,  with  my  masquerading  and  sugar- 
loaf  hat  and  stage  mantle!  The  carbineers  had 
spoken  to  me  throughout  in  the  third  person,  while 
giving  Renzaccio  the  contemptuous  second  singular ;  I 
dared  not  even  suppose  that  they  believed  me  to  be  an 
Italian.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  frankness.  I 
pulled  out  an  English  envelop  addressed  to  me  at 
Finocchio's. 

"  That  is  my  name,  gentlemen." 

They  made  an  effort  to  read  and  pronounce  it,  with 
an  amused  gleam,  between  wonder  and  admiration,  in 
those  keen  looks  of  theirs.  "  Ah,  Inglese !  "  said  the 
elder,  and  his  more  youthful  companion  echoed,  with  a 
droll  expression,  "Inglese — matto!  "  as  having  now 
discovered  the  key  to  all  my  proceedings.  They  con- 
ferred in  whispers  apart,  holding  Renzaccio  in  leash  the 
while,  though  he  seemed  to  have  given  up  all  expecta- 
tion of  deliverance. 

I  felt  more  uncomfortable  than  I  showed ;  an  appear- 
ance before  the  magistrates,  either  as  witness  or  culprit, 
was  by  no  means  to  my  taste.  However,  at  the  end 
of  their  conference,  the  senior  approached  me  again,  and, 
with  a  polite  flourish  of  his  hat,  pointed  to  the  door. 

"  Vossignoria  may  go  at  present,"  were  the  first 
words  I  caught;  "should  you  be  wanted,  we  will  send 
for  you." 


48  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

I  was  out  in  a  second,  rejoicing  over  my  good  for- 
tune, and,  as  on  previous  evenings,  directed  my  rapid 
steps  toward  the  Colosseum.  Skirting  its  southeastern 
arc,  I  had  turned  into  the  pathway  which  divides  it 
from  the  ascent  to  the  Ccelian,  when  I  became  aware 
that  some  one  was  creeping  stealthily  along  behind  me, 
in  the  shadow  of  the  ruins.  I  stopped  and  could  see 
nothing;  I  walked  on  a  few  paces,  and,  wheeling 
sharply  round,  came  face  to  face  with  a  man  of  about 
my  own  height,  who  had  almost  stumbled  against  me. 
We  both  cried  out.  But  he,  in  the  darkness,  catching 
me  by  the  cloak,  whispered,  "  Zitto,  zitto,  non  abbia 
paura,  Signor  Inglese!" 

I  shook  him  roughly  off.  "  Let  go,  sir,"  I  said  in  a 
whisper  as  energetic  as  his  own,  and  I  lifted  my  life- 
preserver.  It  seemed  likely  that  the  name  would  be 
merited  more  than  once  that  night. 

In  the  dim  starlight  beyond  the  shadow  of  the  am- 
phitheater, and  at  the  spot  to  which  I  moved  hastily,  it 
was  possible  to  make  out  who  had  spoken  to  me.  The 
man  still  followed,  whispering,  "  Zitto,  zitto,  non  abbia 
paura!  " 

I  recognized  the  voice,  and  with  it  the  person.  "  Ah, 
you  are  that  young  Apollo,"  I  said  loudly.  "  My  lad, 
I  saved  your  life  just  now.  What  would  you  have?  " 

He  seized  my  skirt  again  with  both  hands.  "  Ma- 
donna, it  is  true!  You  saved  me.  My  name  is  not 
Apollo,  but  Carluccio.  Signor,  a  thousand  thanks. 
But  you  owe  me  thanks  as  much.  Listen  to  me." 

"  I  owe  you  thanks!      What  for?     Let  go  my  cloak." 

He  released  it,  and  stood  humbly  waiting.  "  Signor 
foreigner,  you  are  in  debt  to  me  for  your  life.  I  will 
tell  you  how.  Renzaccio  and  I,  and  some  others"  — 
his  voice  fell  into  an  undertone  which  I  could  only  just 
construe — "  saw  you  these  nights  at  Ranieri's,  always 
tranquil,  always  observant.  We  ask  ourselves,  are  you 


CHAP.  IV.]  WHO  LOSES  PAYS  49 

a  spy  ?  They  say  yes ;  I  say  no.  I  like  something  in 
your  face,  and  I  say  no.  To-night  you  come  once 
more.  We  talk,  we  wrangle,  we  cannot  be  certain. 
At  last  that  malandrino  from  Cartena  and  myself  agree 
to  play  cards  over  it.  If  I  win  two  games  out  of  three, 
you  are  an  honest  man,  we  let  you  go.  If  Renzaccio 
wins — " 

"  Yes,  if  Renzaccio  wins,"  I  repeated,  for  the  youth 
had  checked  himself,  overcome  with  an  emotion,  the 
source  of  which  was  not  apparent.  He  seemed  to 
prick  up  his  ears  and  listen  for  steps  behind  us. 

"  Draw  aside  under  the  arch,"  he  said;  "fear  not,  I 
will  not  hurt  you." 

It  was  perhaps  foolish,  but  I  let  him  guide  me.  We 
were  now  within  the  Arch  of  Constantine,  and  the 
lamps  of  the  Via  Gregorio  twinkled  before  us. 

"  If  he  won,"  Carluccio  said  in  the  same  undertone, 
"  we  were  both  to  draw  our  knives  and  make  you  cold." 

I  saw  it  all  as  he  spoke.  The  mist  filling  the  trat- 
toria, myself  leaning  back  against  the  pillar  watching 
them,  and  these  two  men  playing  within  a  yard  of  me 
for  my  life.  Acknowledge  that  it  was  a  piquant  situa- 
tion! 

"  Well,  what  happened  ?  "  I  asked  him. 

"  Per  Bacco,  what  happened  ?  This  happened.  I 
won  the  first  game.  Renzaccio,  accidente  to  him — the 
Lord  strike  him — won  the  second.  As  we  got  deep  in 
the  third,  all  was  going  in  my  favor — in  yours,  Signer, 
do  you  understand? — but  no,  he  would  not  have  it. 
He  cheated ;  I  saw  him  cheat.  His  fingers  were  itch- 
ing to  make  you  cold — you  would  not  be  the  first — 
and  it  was  his  ugly  hour,  when  he  must  draw  blood  or 
let  blood.  So  he  cheated,  and  I  caught  him  at  it. 
From  words  we  came  to  blows;  we  drew  our  angel 
guardians.  I  was  not  for  striking  him  at  first ;  but  he 
— ah,  if  your  cane  was  not  down  on  him,  where  would 


50  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

my  face  be  now?  Finely  adorned  with  a  sfregio 
d'amore,  cut  and  slashed  like  a  pumpkin.  Do  you  be- 
lieve me  now?  " 

I  gave  him  my  hand.  "  Yes,  Carluccio,  I  do.  And 
you  must  believe  me.  I  am  not  a  spy.  All  I  wanted 
was  to  meet  a  friend  who  never  came." 

"  It  is  well.  But  take  warning.  The  police  have  let 
you  run  and  put  Renzaccio  in  the  cage.  He  will  have 
two  years  for  carrying  an  edged  weapon  in  his  pocket. 
Think  you  he  has  no  friends  to  do  you  a  kind  turn? 
Signer  foreigner,  twenty  pairs  of  eyes,  and  mine  as 
.well,  kept  watching  you  when  we  ran  out  of  the  trat- 
toria. I  told  the  rest  to  go  home ;  I  would  track  you, 
and  I  must.  But  wherever  you  sleep  this  night,  in  the 
morning  leave  Rome,  leave  Italy.  Take  the  earliest 
train  to  Livorno,  to  Naples,  and  get  on  board  a  steamer, 
the  first  you  can  find.  Renzaccio  will  be  revenged  if 
he  escapes,  and  if  he  does  not  escape.  You  saved  my 
face,  and  I  tell  you  all  I  dare.  Now,  in  the  name  of 
God,  forward." 

I  wrung  his  hand  a  second  time,  quickened  my  pace, 
and  went  swiftly  by  the  Via  San  Gregorio,  the  Cerchi, 
and  San  Teodoro — a  long  round,  but  the  only  route 
accessible  to  me  since  the  Forum  has  been  shut  in  for 
excavations — until  I  reached  the  Capitol,  my  friend  or 
enemy  (I  could  hardly  tell  which)  keeping  step  for  step, 
but  speaking  no  more  than  I  did.  When  we  had  come 
to  Marcus  Aurelius  on  his  brazen  horse,  I  took  a  flying 
leap  down  the  great  stairs  in  front  of  the  Palazzo  dei 
Conservatori,  flung  myself  into  the  first  cab  which  was 
standing  there,  shook  off  Carluccio,  who  attempted  to 
spring  in  after  me,  and  told  the  vetturino  to  drive  straight 
into  the  Corso.  My  haste  and  passion  stirred  him  up 
as  by  contagion.  He  drove  with  a  scream  and  a  flour- 
ish, and  went  madly  forward  until  he  ran  into  a  throng 
of  carriages  at  the  door  of  some  mansion  near  the  Co- 


CHAP.  IV.]  WHO  LOSES  PAYS  51 

lonna,  from  which  lights  were  glancing.  There  I 
sprang  out,  and  my  Jehu  took  without  a  murmur  the 
English  gold  which  I  thrust  into  his  hand.  Amid  the 
crush  of  vehicles  and  foot-passengers  I  stopped  to  con- 
sider. I  dared  not  go  home  to  Giovanni.  What 
should  I  do  next? 

Then  I  remembered  that  Don  Gaetano  was  lodging 
at  his  Circolo.  Would  he  be  at  home?  How  would 
he  receive  me  ?  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  make 
the  attempt.  Still  keeping,  as  far  as  possible,  away 
from  the  electric  radiance  which  came  down  in  floods 
on  the  Corso,  and  with  a  tumultuous  yet  not  unde- 
lighted  heart — for  the  adventure  had  its  own  joy — I 
moved  on  almost  to  the  Piazza,  del  Popolo,  and  made 
my  way  in  among  a  company  of  well-dressed  youths  to 
the  atrium,  or  lower  court  of  the  club-house.  Don 
Gaetano  was  in  the  smoking-room.  I  begged  his  at- 
tendance for  an  urgent  business ;  he  came  out  in  even- 
ing dress,  with  a  cigarette  between  his  fingers,  and 
what  was  his  astonishment  when  a  stranger  addressed 
him,  in  whose  thick  eyebrows  and  excessively  dark 
features  he  was  bidden,  with  due  precautions,  to  recog- 
nize Arden  Massiter!  But  as  my  tale  proceeded,  and 
the  name  of  the  trattoria  slipped  from  me,  the  Prince 
held  up  a  warning  finger. 

"  Name  no  names,"  he  said  quietly,  "  you  will  find  it 
more  advisable.  You  want  a  pied-a-terre.  Come  with 
me." 


CHAPTER  V 

UDOLPHO 

morning  marched  over  snowy  Apennines,  and 
JL  cast  before  it  long  diamond  shafts  into  the  still 
slumbering  Campagna,  when  Gaetano,  erect  on  the 
driving  seat  of  his  swift  conveyance,  bade  me  remark 
where  a  heavy  white  mist  clung  to  the  mountains, 
toward  which  we  had  lately  set  our  faces. 

"  As  soon  as  that  clears  away,  behold  the  Volscians ! " 
he  cried  exultingly;  and  then,  with  the  tender  look 
which  indicated  a  new  strain  of  reflection,  "  I  know  not 
if  you  will  think  them  beautiful,  or  be  pleased  with 
your  prison.  Wild  and  poor,  unformed  in  their  habits 
are  our  people,  rude  as  the  rocks  they  mount  and  de- 
scend like  their  native  goats.  It  is  a  strange  fancy,  is 
it  not,  to  bring  you  into  the  Monti  Lepini  when  you 
are  escaping  from  brigands?"  And  he  laughed  and 
drove  on  through  the  morning  land. 

We  had  been  passing  between  the  Latin  and  the 
Sabine  range,  having  quitted  Rome  at  earliest  dawn  by 
the  Porta  San  Giovanni ;  and  now,  after  several  hours, 
while  the  mist  scattered  and  great  gulfs  of  blue  opened 
above  our  heads,  we  left  behind  us  towns  I  will  not 
name,  and  crossed  the  Via  Latina.  We  had  traveled 
a  roundabout  journey,  not  choosing  to  follow  the  ordi- 
nary route  from  Rome  to  Velletri,  but  making  a  wider 
cast,  for  reasons  which  my  adventures  of  the  night  be- 

S2 


CHAP.  V.]  UDOLPHO  53 

fore  justified.  There  was  no  attendant  with  us,  but  the 
young  Prince  knew  his  business,  and  showed  himself  a 
superb  Automedon.  For  me,  I  talked  little,  rehearsing 
in  fancy  all  I  had  gone  through,  and  endeavoring, 
somewhat  vainly,  to  piece  out  a  scheme  that  should 
bring  into  connection  Tiberio,  Renzaccio,  and  my  well- 
wisher,  the  Apollo  of  the  Street  of  Serpents.  Was 
Finocchio  acquainted  with  them  all? 

Gaetano  had  more  insight  than  I,  undoubtedly ;  but, 
whatever  he  knew,  his  lips  were  sealed.  At  half  a 
word  he  understood  me  when  I  began,  in  the  hall  of 
the  Circolo,  to  explain  my  appearance  at  an  hour,  and 
in  a  costume,  so  unexpected.  He  made  light  of  the 
legal  functionaries  who  might  be  inquiring  after  the 
eccentric  Englishman.  Not  so  of  Carluccio  and  his 
warning. 

"  Gia,  you  must  say  addio  to  Rome  before  twelve 
hours  are  past,"  said  he.  "  You  would  not  be  safe  in 
a  squadron  of  carbineers.  Come  without  tuck  of 
drum  to  Roccaforte.  In  the  castle  no  one  will  dare  to 
attack  you — nay,  we  have  brigands  of  our  own  upon 
whom  we  can  reckon,"  he  added,  with  a  grim  laugh ; 
"  and  now  I  will  see  that  you  get  accommodation  here 
instead  of  risking  discovery  at  another  hotel.  For 
certain,  you  cannot  go  back  to  yours." 

"  Detto,  fatto,"  done  as  soon  as  said.  And  here,  as 
the  splendid  morning  rode  up  toward  noon,  we  were 
skirting  the  hills,  with  an  ever-widening  prospect  over 
marsh  and  green  field,  and  a  line  of  silver  drawing  out 
and  along  upon  a  clear  horizon — it  was  the  Tuscan  Sea 
between  Ostia  and  Terracina.  We  went  at  a  gallop, 
though  the  paths  grew  steeper.  In  every  direction 
there  was  the  sound  or  sight  of  falling  and  creeping 
streams,  reedy  and  sullen,  or  crisp,  sparkling,  foamy, 
under  thick  branches  of  the  holm-oak  and  amid  clumps 
of  chestnut,  arbutus,  and  other  trees  unknown.  A 


54  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

chapel  of  the  Madonna,  with  its  four  whitewashed  walls, 
wire  fencing,  and  artificial  flowers  stuck  between  the 
meshes,  greeted  us  now  and  again.  But,  oftener  still, 
I  observed  on  the  roadside  heaps  of  stones,  into  which 
a  cross  of  rude  formation — two  black  chips,  it  might 
be,  nailed  together — was  thrust  upright. 

"  What  does  the  cross  mean  with  that  heap  of 
stones?"  I  inquired. 

Gaetano  looked  and  turned  away.  "  It  means  a  mis- 
fortune," he  said  calmly;  "a  murdered  man.  You  will 
do  well  to  pray  for  him.  But  I  forgot,  the  Inglesi 
don't  believe  in  prayer." 

I  think  he  was  muttering  a  verse  or  two  of  the  De 
Profundis,  for  I  could  hear  the  stern  adjuration,  "  Si 
iniquitates  observaveris,  Domine — Domine,  quis  sus- 
tinebit?" 

"  Ay,  indeed,"  was  my  inward  comment,  "  if  every 
violent  death  in  that  accursed  plain,  and  on  these  lone- 
some hills,  is  to  call  forth  another,  Lord,  when  shall  be 
the  end?" 

But  I  was  careful  not  to  disturb  Gaetano  at  his 
prayers,  remembering  that  tremendous  outburst  on 
Montorio.  The  Italian,  I  felt,  had  a  volcano  in  his 
heart — how  unlike  the  ice-brook  temper  of  the 
Northern ! 

"Look  up,  look  up!"  exclaimed  my  companion, 
lashing  his  steed  more  from  excitement  than  cruelty,  as 
we  reached  a  turn  in  the  road.  "  No  more  mist;  there 
is  the  sun,  and  there — higher  still,  you  must  throw 
your  head  back  as  I  do — there  is  Roccaforte!  Last 
refuge  of  the  Sorelli,  I  salute  you!  " 

His  hat  was  off,  I  lifted  mine,  and  throwing  back  my 
head,  gazed  into  the  lofty  sky.  Then  I  too  murmured, 
"  Roccaforte,  ti  saluto."  Almost  perpendicularly 
above  us,  on  a  double  ledge  projecting,  with  mountain 
crests  far  and  near  to  keep  it  company,  stood  the 


CHAP.  V.]  UDOLPHO  55 

ancient  town  and  the  fortress  that  crowned  its  height. 
Bare  on  this  side  of  verdure,  it  shone,  under  the  great 
illumination,  with  the  intense  yellowish- white  of  ivory ; 
the  limestone  rock  had  a  blinding  glare  upon  it,  and  I 
shielded  my  eyes  for  pain.  Three  or  four  churches 
lifted  their  towers  above  a  huddled  mass  of  irregular, 
tumbling  streets.  The  castle  soared  up  out  of  its 
woods,  and  from  the  main  building  rose  turrets  of  me- 
dieval masonry  at  uncertain  intervals.  It  was  an 
eagle's  nest. 

Still  the  paths  ascended,  but  where  they  forked  to 
the  upper  and  lower  piazza  we  took  what  seemed  to 
me  a  Roman  road,  flagged  with  blocks  of  lava,  and  be- 
tween narrow  walls  we  made  for  a  high  gateway  which 
commanded  every  foot  of  our  going.  A  single  piece 
of  artillery  placed  there  would  have  blown  us  to  limbo. 
Under  the  Norman  arch,  into  a  vast  courtyard,  across 
the  pavement  of  cobbled  stones,  and  to  a  second  gate, 
such  was  our  course — all  that  we  set  eyes  on  being 
dark,  ancient,  frowning,  speechless,  but  the  more  sig- 
nificant, a  castle  of  Bluebeard  or  the  Marechal  de  Retz. 
I  spied  a  huge  oval  shield  above  this  second  entrance, 
which  bore  on  a  field  gules  a  mailed  arm,  holding 
a  naked  dagger  argent,  and  round  its  edge  in  worn  let- 
ters I  deciphered  the  words  quoted  by  my  young  pro- 
tector, "  Sangue  lava  sangue."  The  motto  and  the 
device  were  well  matched.  There,  in  a  sentence,  was 
summed  up  the  recorded  history  of  Roccaforte. 

Dying  now,  and  its  arm  broken,  this  proud  family, 
which  had  given  to  the  Church  many  cardinals  and 
more  than  one  pope,  whose  marble  monuments  lined 
the  walls  of  Ara  Cceli  or  Santa  Maria  in  Campitelli; 
while  its  lay  princes  had  contended  with  the  Papacy, 
beaten  down  their  enemies  in  battle,  levied  blackmail 
on  the  travelers  that  passed  by  on  the  Via  Latina. 
toward  Naples,  and  never  knew  what  it  was  to  obey 


56  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BooK  I. 

any  law  which  themselves  had  not  made.  As  we  en- 
tered this  enormous  tomb,  in  which  only  ghosts  were 
dwelling,  and  the  staircase,  broad  enough  for  a  regi- 
ment to  march  up  it,  invited  our  ascent,  Dante's 
melancholy  stanza  hummed  in  mine  ear — 

Le  vostre  cose  tutte  hanno  lor  morte 
Si  come  voi ;  ma  celasi  in  alcuna 
Che  dura  molto,  e  le  vite  son  corte. 

This  existence  of  the  Sorelli  in  their  mountain  fast- 
ness, what  was  it  save  a  tedious  agony?  Their  day 
was  over.  The  world  had  other  tasks  than  medieval 
violence  and  Machiavellian  intrigue  could  accomplish ; 
I  marveled,  and  still  it  is  a  wonder  to  me,  that  the 
dead  will  not  bury  their  dead.  But  I  was  among  them, 
for  lo!  a  serious,  dark-visaged  man,  well-stricken  in 
years,  at  the  head  of  the  staircase,  who  seemed  in  no 
hurry  to  speak  until  Don  Gaetano  challenged  him  by 
the  name  of  Ser  Angelo — it  was  the  steward — and 
asked  where  his  father  might  be.  Ser  Angelo  pointed 
to  the  door  in  front  of  us,  which  was  opening  as  we 
landed  in  the  stone  corridor.  The  young  Signer  mo- 
tioned me  to  follow,  and  we  entered  a  saloon  of  great 
dimensions,  lofty,  frescoed,  tessellated,  with  gilt  furni- 
ture of  the  seventeenth  century,  and  mirrors  which 
multiplied  all  this  as  in  a  palace  at  once  transparent  and 
unoccupied.  The  hall  was,  in  fact,  empty,  except  for 
an  aged  man  who  drew  back  from  the  door  as  we  came 
in.  When  his  eye  fell  upon  Don  Gaetano  he  smiled, 
and  gave  him  his  hand  to  kiss  in  stately  fashion,  waiting 
with  a  formidable  air  of  politeness  until  the  stranger 
had  been  introduced.  It  was  Orazio,  Duke  of  Rocca- 
forte. 

What  a  magnificent  presence!  Taller  and  broader 
than  his  son,  straight  as  an  arrow,  with  perfectly  pale, 
wrinkled  face,  snow-white  hair  and  beard,  and  two 


CHAP.  V.]  UDOLPHO  57 

great  eyes,  which  had  in  them  the  light  of  the  car- 
buncle. This  apparition,  worthy  to  be  a  king,  was  clad 
from  head  to  foot  in  sable — a  dark  velvet  dressing- 
gown, — surmounted  by  a  turban-like  head-dress,  from 
which  his  silvery  locks  escaped,  falling  almost  to  the 
shoulders.  His  long,  nervous  fingers  grasped  mine, 
while  Gaetano  was  striking  out  my  history  in  rapid 
words ;  I  felt  as  one  might  do  in  the  eagle's  talons,  se- 
cure from  every  other  foe,  helpless  in  a  clasp  so  un- 
yielding. 

Be  it  observed  that  to  Gaetano  I  had  revealed  none 
of  my  connection  with  Tiberio  Sforza;  and  thus,  while 
he  told  what  was  simple  truth,  my  adventure  in  the  Via 
dei  Serpenti  put  on  the  air  of  a  freak  and  a  mere  ac- 
cident. 

"  I  have  known  Englishmen,"  said  the  Prince,  releas- 
ing my  hand,  "  they  were  fair  as  cherubs.  You,  Signer, 
might  pass  for  one  of  ourselves,  with  your  dark  eyes 
and  hair.  Pardon  me,  are  you  altogether  English?" 
He  spoke  in  slow,  measured  accents,  pausing  between 
the  words. 

"  My  father's  grandfather  married  a  lady  from  Ra- 
venna. It  is  to  her  I  am  indebted  for  the  resemblance 
which  your  Highness  has  observed.  I  have  always 
felt  a  deep  regard — a  passion,  I  might  say — for  the 
poets  and  artists  of  this  beautiful  land  of  yours.  When 
I  was  quite  young  I  learned  Italian ;  as  a  lad  I  spent 
many  months  in  Rome  and  Venice.  If  to  think  Italian 
thoughts  could  mold  the  features,  I  should  certainly 
be  not  unlike  some  of  your  countrymen." 

The  Prince  listened,  without  interrupting  me,  to  this 
little  speech.  I  wanted  not  to  sail  under  false  colors. 
If  he  should  take  me  for  the  ordinary  traveling  John 
Bull,  to  whom  Italy  is  at  best  a  museum  and  at  worst 
so  many  hours  of  dry  sunshine,  it  would  not  be  my 
fault.  He  motioned  me  to  sit  down,  but  remained 


58  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

standing  himself.  "  The  Cardinal  has  written  to  me 
about  you,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  meditation.  "  Your 
signer  father,  he  tells  me,  is  rich  and  powerful,  and 
you  are  his  eldest  son ;  but  there  is  some  difference  be- 
tween you.  Why  did  you  leave  him  ?  "  All  this  was 
uttered  with  much  feeling  and  an  old  man's  gracious 
mildness,  though  with  a  suspicion  of  reproach  that  I 
could  well  understand.  Impossible  to  take  offense. 
But  equally  impossible  to  begin  a  long  story  and  enter 
on  questions  of  economics,  social  righteousness,  and 
the  new  era,  there  and  then. 

"  We  differed  as  fathers  and  sons  will  do  when  the 
world  is  changing,"  I  said. 

"  But  your  father  has  disinherited  you  ?  Has  he  put 
your  younger  brother  first,  made  him  the  heir?  His 
Eminence  was  told  so." 

Poor  Dick!  I  wonder  who  put  that  story  about. 
Fancy  Dick,  Laura,  with  his  racing,  and  gaming,  and 
all  you  know  and  don't  know,  coming  in  for  the  Mas- 
siter  estate !  And  fancy  my  father  handing  it  over  to 
him  with  his  blessing!  I  shook  my  head  with  an  un- 
believing smile ;  it  was  too  grotesque.  The  Prince 
caught  my  meaning  instantly. 

"  Then  you  are  still  the  heir?  "  he  concluded.  "  You 
will  return  to  your  island,  be  a  noble  and  enjoy  great 
property,  as  soon  as  you  are  reconciled  to  your  signer 
father?" 

"  My  father  is  always  willing  to  make  friends,  but  on 
his  own  conditions.  It  rests  with  me  to  take  them  or 
leave  them.  At  present,  I  leave  them." 

"  It  is  always  la  politica,"  interposed  Don  Gaetano, 
"  there  as  well  as  here,  beyond  the  Alps  and  in  the 
Apennines.  Signer  Massiter,  like  our  Camillo,"  he 
said  with  unmistakable  bitterness,  "  wants  to  move  with 
the  times.  Or  is  it  against  the  times,  Signer?  Per- 
haps against  them." 


CHAP.  V.]  UDOLPHO  59 

"  I  am  not  of  Don  Camillo's  party,  at  all  events," 
said  I.  "  This  Italy  which  was  made  at  Turin  is 
neither  my  Italy  nor  yours.  I  think  of  something  far 
more  humane,  far  more  heroic.  I  hate  modern  Eng- 
land. Judge,  then,  if  I  detest  the  new  Italy,  which  is 
only  a  base  caricature  of  it." 

The  Prince  said  nothing,  but  he  exchanged  a  glance 
with  his  son  which  Gaetano  returned ;  and  then  the 
younger  man  added  joyously,  "  I  will  convert  you  to 
my  views,  Signer  Massiter ;  but  now  it  is  time  you  had 
refreshment." 

"  Surely,"  said  his  father,  "  my  house  is  at  his  dis- 
posal for  as  long  as  he  will  remain.  But  Gaetano," 
pulling  out  his  watch,  "  Don  Antonio  is  in  the  chapel. 
Have  you  heard  holy  Mass  to-day  ?  " 

"  We  were  driving  all  these  hours,  and  could  not 
stop  for  Mass.  Are  you  ready  to  go,  father?  I  will 
go  too.  Our  guest  shall  breakfast  meanwhile." 

"  No,  take  me  with  you,"  I  said ;  "  breakfast  can 
wait.  I  am  not  a  Catholic,  but  seeing  your  devotions, 
though  I  do  not  share  in  them,  is  an  old  habit  of  mine ; 
it  does  me  good." 

Accordingly  we  went  all  three,  by  other  steps,  and 
through  long,  low  passages,  into  a  wing  of  this  huge 
rambling  castle,  which  looked  on  the  ravine  to  the 
southeast.  A  gloomy  chapel,  though  once  resplendent 
with  gold,  and  still  displaying  a  fine  sanctuary,  in  vio- 
let and  yellow  marbles,  with  some  uncertain  outlines 
of  wall-painting,  ruined  by  the  damp  and  neglect  of 
centuries.  At  the  altar,  in  front  of  a  heavy  pediment 
supported  by  columns,  stood  the  priest  in  his  vestments, 
for  the  service  was  beginning — a  beautiful  old  man, 
slender  and  wasted,  with  venerable  white  hair  and  deli- 
cate hands.  In  the  chapel  knelt  or  stood  a  few  ser- 
vants of  the  house,  wearing  that  air  of  unconcern  which, 
if  it  conceals  piety,  does  so  with  entire  success,  and 


60  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

which  in  any  but  Italians  would  denote  the  most  pro- 
found indifference.  What  it  signifies  in  them  I  never 
could  make  out  to  my  own  satisfaction.  The  Prince 
was  attentive  at  his  prayers ;  Don  Gaetano  never  took 
his  eyes  off  the  celebrating  priest  and  his  motions  about 
the  altar.  But  for  me,  as  a  heretic,  it  was  permissible 
to  let  my  thoughts  wander  a  little,  especially  as  neither 
preaching  nor  singing  diversified  the  rite  which  went 
forward  in  absolute  whispers. 

I  had  observed,  from  the  first  moment  of  coming 
into  the  chapel,  a  tribune  on  my  left,  such  as,  in  Italian 
churches,  often  serves  for  the  choir,  with  an  admirable 
wrought-iron  screen  dividing  it  from  us.  The  interstices 
of  the  screen  were  large,  and  behind  them  I  caught  an 
occasional  glimpse  of  divers  female  figures — the  ladies 
of  the  castle,  no  doubt,  and  their  attendants,  who,  after 
the  fashion  of  an  Eastern  seraglio,  were  thus  protected 
from  contact  with  the  world  outside.  It  was  quite 
possible,  nevertheless,  to  remark  not  only  that  they 
wore  the  becoming  lace  veils  thrown  over  their  heads, 
which  recall  Spanish  customs  in  the  Peninsula,  but  that 
two  of  them  were  noble  and  the  rest  their  hand- 
maidens. These  two  for  the  most  part  knelt,  with  eyes 
downcast  or  overshadowed  by  the  outstretched  palm ; 
yet  once  or  twice  they  stood  up,  fairly  in  view,  and 
then  I  could  see  their  features.  No,  I  am  not  going  to 
attempt  a  sketch  of  them ;  but  I  will  give  you  my  im- 
pression, such  as  it  was,  for  I  have  not  the  gift  of  a 
French  falcon,  that  flies  at  all  game,  and  I  saw  these 
ladies  only  as  they  might  have  appeared  at  a  window 
one  moment,  to  disappear  the  next. 

It  was  not  the  ray  of  sunlight,  piercing  through  a 
dim  air,  and  resting  upon  these  two  heads  that  drew 
my  gaze  with  an  illusory  splendor.  Had  you  seen  it, 
Laura,  your  fine  sense  would  have  warned  you,  as  my 
ruder  faculty  warned  me,  that  something  strange  was 


CHAP.  V.]  UDOLPHO  61 

happening.  The  heads  lifted  up  were  as  unlike  as 
youth  and  age  in  this  Southern  region,  where  contrasts 
are  extreme.  But  on  the  face  of  the  elder  lady,  as  on 
that  of  her  companion,  I  marked  the  light  which  in  no 
other  human  countenances  have  I  known  to  be  reflected, 
of  pure  and  perfect  ecstasy.  It  did  not  fall  upon  them 
from  sun  or  sky ;  it  was  kindled  above  inward  fires ;  it 
burned  transparently,  a  flame  in  a  lamp  of  alabaster, 
rosy  and  white  and  still.  Neither  of  these  praying 
figures  saw  the  forms  of  things  around  them.  With 
eyes  open,  fixed  upon  the  air,  they  dreamed  their 
dream,  abolishing  at  a  stroke  the  whole  place,  if  not, 
perchance,  transforming  it  to  the  color  and  shape  of 
the  realities  that  held  them  captive.  A  consummate 
actor — a  musician  in  the  moment  of  his  triumphant  ut- 
terance— might  look  so  divinely,  that  beatific  smile  on 
his  half-open  lips.  But  here  the  music  was  silent,  or 
to  my  gross  ears  inaudible.  The  light  never  wavered, 
if  I  might  judge  by  this,  that  twice  over,  at  the  interval 
of  many  minutes,  these  wonderful  creatures  rose  from 
their  kneeling  posture,  and  each  time  ecstasy  shone 
upon  their  faces. 

"  Saints  of  an  old  religion,"  I  murmured  to  myself, 
"  initiated  and  steeped  in  it,  by  some  lost  power,  as  of 
primeval  poetry,  or  day-dreaming,  that  grasps  the  solid 
and  goes  down  to  the  waters  of  life,  where  we  should 
fall  through  into  the  void."  I  might  have  kept  staring 
at  the  tribune ;  they  would  never  have  noticed  me. 
When  I  turned  to  the  altar,  I  could  recall  every  line  of 
both  faces,  but  with  the  radiance,  superhuman,  ineffa- 
ble, upon  them  which  perhaps  revealed  a  beauty  des- 
tined to  vanish  away  when  that  veil  was  withdrawn. 
The  younger  lady  had  lived  in  many  a  gallery  of  pic- 
tures ;  not  to-day  for  the  first  time  had  I  examined  the 
proud  Roman  head  framed  in  its  sunny  hair,  under  the 
black  veil — hair  which  was  without  ornament  or  jewel, 


62  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

bound  classically  upon  a  large  forehead  and  over  lucent 
eyes,  themselves  a  golden  gray  in  the  flood  of  tender- 
ness through  which  they  shone.  I  had  often  followed 
on  canvas  the  drooping  curve  of  those  full  breathing 
lips,  which  could  bend  and  ply  themselves  to  all  the 
tones  of  existence;  but  their  key  was  a  passionate 
energy.  I  marked  decision  in  the  gesture  with  which 
the  head  was  thrown  back,  if  also  abandonment  to  the 
coming  of  the  spirit ;  and  something  akin  to  the  lovely 
dawn,  to  the  dew  and  the  nightingale,  smote  upon  me 
from  the  unclouded  brow; — I  thought  of  all  fresh 
morning  influences,  of  the  sun  scattering  roses  in  the 
east,  and  the  shadows  fleeing  away,  while  to  myself,  as 
at  an  immense  distance,  the  vision  ascended  in  a  sky  of 
purest  ether.  In  that  instant  I  caught  an  idea  hitherto 
beyond  the  reaches  of  my  soul;  the  Madonna  was  no 
poet's  feigning;  could  I  have  thrown  this  ecstasy  on 
a  surface  outside  me,  I  might  have  equaled  the  San 
Sisto  in  truth,  if  not  in  sweetness  and  felicity  of 
drawing. 

The  other  lady — I  cannot  think  of  her  now.  We 
shall  meet  her  again,  and  then  will  be  time  enough  to 
touch  on  her  description.  Call  her  la  pinzochera — the 
devout  Sibyl,  anything  you  will.  She,  too,  had  the 
ecstatic  look  which  makes  beautiful,  and  yet  it  was 
rather  as  a  foil  or  a  contrast  that  she  appeared  by  the 
side  of  this  Beatrice.  They  were  not  mother  and 
daughter;  I  knew  that  well.  The  Prince  had  lost  his 
wife  many  years  ago.  In  the  fair  young  Ecstatica, 
clothed  upon  with  such  glorious  colors,  I  recognized  a 
likeness  of  feature,  combined  with  as  remarkable  an 
unlikeness  of  expression,  to  Don  Gaetano.  His  sister 
— of  so  much  I  could  be  nowise  in  doubt.  The  ques- 
tion, however,  pursued  me  without  ceasing,  whether  I 
should  come  to  speech  and  conversation  with  a  lady  so 
young  and  still  unmarried,  though  I  was  a  guest  be- 


CHAP.  V.]  UDOLPHO  63 

neath  her  father's  roof.  Would  she  be  kept  always  in 
the  seraglio  until  I  had  passed  out  of  range  ? 

Laura  shakes  her  head  dubiously.  What  was  the 
Ecstatica  to  me?  Why,  of  course,  nothing;  what 
could  she  be  to  me  ?  Therefore  I  felt  perfectly  en  regie 
in  wishing  to  explore  the  mind,  or  to  judge  in  some 
degree  of  the  temperament,  which  answered  to  an  ap- 
pearance at  once  singular  and  tantalizing.  Not  every 
day  do  we  come  across  a  saint.  Our  English  world, 
large  as  it  imagines  itself,  breeds  nothing  equal  to  this 
austere  inspiration ;  it  abounds  in  the  benevolent,  the 
truthful,  the  energetic  ;  it  has  neither  saints  nor  miracle- 
workers.  It  is  so  modern  that  it  cannot  even  allow 
them  to  be  possible ;  it  sets  them  down  in  its  diction- 
aries with  griffons,  wyverns,  sea-serpents,  and  men 
"  whose  heads  do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders." 
Would  you  have  me,  who  am  only  half  an  Englishman, 
forfeit  my  chance  of  acquaintance  at  first  hand  with 
realities  so  questionable? 

In  a  few  hours  the  doubt  was  decided.  Evening 
came,  and  with  it  dinner  in  the  Great  Hall — a  lonesome, 
drafty  room,  capable  of  feasting  five  hundred — and 
there,  yes,  at  table,  amid  silver  candelabra  and  with 
choice  old  Venice  glass  at  my  elbow,  I  could  look  as 
long  as  good  manners  would  warrant  at  my  two  saints, 
or  at  either  of  them.  You  have  my  confession,  Laura ; 
make  the  most  of  it. 

Perdoni,  I  have  not  said  that  I  saw  them  thus  on  the 
Sunday  evening.  No  such  thing!  You  are  caught, 
my  dear  girls ;  read  more  attentively.  On  the  Sunday 
we  dined  in  state,  the  Prince,  his  son,  and  their  guest ; 
but  as  in  a  monastery,  without  much  talk,  and  by  our- 
selves ;  neither  did  St.  Cecily  grace  our  banquet — 
which,  by  the  way,  had  little  to  boast  of  except  in  its 
appointments.  The  dishes  were  few  and  simple.  I 
would  not  give  a  bottle  of  Chateau  Margaux  for  all  the 


64  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

Falernian  that  was  ever  drunk — it  has  neither  flavor 
nor  bouquet — and  if  Madame  de  Maintenon  had  been 
our  hostess,  she  must  have  told  more  than  one  good 
story  to  help  it  down.  I  wondered  how  to  approach 
the  subject,  delicate  and  dangerous  in  Southern  ears,  of 
the  ladies  of  Roccaforte.  Cautiously  hovering  on  its 
edge,  I  talked  of  travelers'  ways,  the  customs  of  nations, 
French  salons  and  English  freedom.  Our  girls,  I  in- 
sinuated, went  where  they  pleased  and  did  as  they  liked. 
Whereupon  Miss  Dalton  sighs  and  holds  up  her  hands 
in  horror,  with  a  vision  of  Amazons  seated,  after  the 
manner  of  Britannia,  on  wheels,  and  flying  before  the 
wind.  The  minxes!  Doubtless,  my  dear  madam, 
mais  que  voulez-vous?  It  is  the  progress  of  science; 
you — I  mean  they — quicken  your  pace,  shorten  your 
skirts,  and  race  to  happiness.  And  so  I  chanted,  but 
discreetly,  the  praises  of  a  social  order  in  which  any 
woman,  married  or  single,  may  dance,  smoke,  flirt,  and 
join  in  philanthropic  excursions  with  any  man,  and 
nothing  said.  Gaetano  eyed  the  Prince,  who  listened 
as  to  the  latest  Marco  Polo,  just  back  from  China,  full 
of  the  barbarous  practices  he  had  witnessed  or  shared 
in.  And  then  the  younger  man  laughed — 

"  My  aunt,  Donna  Anastagia,  never  saw  these  wheels ; 
but  what  does  she  see  except  the  saints  in  glory  ?  And 
my  sister,  Donna  Costanza,  will  never  mount  one.  Yet 
they  go  where  they  like,  and  do  what  they  please. 
Don't  they,  padre  mio?" 

"  I  wish  they  would  come  home  to  dine,"  said  the 
Prince.  "  Really,  Don  Antonio  should  persuade  your 
sister  that  it  is  not  her  duty  to  be  nursing  fever  patients 
in  the  village,  at  this  time  of  night." 

"But  he  nurses  them  himself;  and  priests  and 
women  are  all  the  same,  tutt'  uno!  There  should  be 
a  proverb,  '  Stiff  necked  as  a  saint.'  Not  true,  Signer 
mio?  Ah,  in  England  you  breed  no  saints.  Well,  I 


CHAP.  V.]  UDOLPHO  65 

revere  them,  but  they  are  often  a  nuisance — to-night, 
for  example!" 

"  Is  there  fever  in  the  village  ?  And  does — the 
Prince's  daughter — turn  nursing  sister?"  I  inquired. 
In  imagination,  I  was  pursuing  the  luminous  apparition 
shining  into  those  filthy  hovels — where  an  Englishman 
would  not  stable  his  horses — that  shoulder  and  tumble 
against  each  other,  frowsy,  dark,  and  malodorous,  in  a 
mountain  village  among  the  Apennines.  My  glimpse 
of  Roccaforte  had  disclosed  an  unspeakably  foul  street 
or  two,  as  we  turned  from  the  lower  piazza ;  and  fifteen 
years'  absence  did  not  suffice  to  quench  the  fumes  of 
my  unpleasant  memories,  when,  as  a  boy,  I  had  gone 
on  voyages  of  discovery  into  Italian  byways.  Good 
heavens,  if  over  all  this  fever  hung  like  a  cloud,  into 
what  an  inferno  had  Donna  Costanza  gone  down ! 

"Fever,  fever,"  said  Gaetano  indignantly,  "there  is 
always  fever!  I  can't  blame  my  good  aunt,  and  I 
adore  my  sister,  if  they  both  follow  Don  Antonio  as 
ministering  angels.  They  make  amends  for  us  " — with 
a  look  somewhat  defiant  and  reproachful  at  the  Prince, 
"  who  -do  nothing — ay,  less  than  nothing,"  he  concluded 
bitterly. 

"  What  can  we  do,  my  son,  except  show  a  little 
charity  for  God's  sake  ?  "  replied  his  father.  "  La  feb- 
bre  is  a  visitation.  Pazienza!" 

I  watched  Don  Gaetano,  when  this  panacea,  dear  to 
the  Latin  mind,  for  all  the  ills  of  life — and  an  excuse 
for  not  mending  them — was  uttered  with  the  pious  res- 
ignation that  seemed  to  wrap  it  in  a  silver  lining. 
Had  not  his  father  spoken  it,  I  thought  a  flash  from 
those  eloquent  eyes  would  have  devoured  it  up.  He 
was  silent,  however. 

"  What  are  the  causes  of  la  febbre  in  so  pure  and 
fine  an  air  as  Roccaforte?"  was  my  question.  "In 
Lornbardy,  I  know,  it  is  due  to  la  pellagra,  it  comes 


66  ARDEN  MAS3ITER  [BOOK  I. 

from  eating  unwholesome  maize.  Do  they  eat  maize 
— gran  turco — in  these  parts?" 

"  As  much  as  they  can  get  of  it,"  answered  my 
young  friend  gloomily.  "The  causes  of  fever  in  a 
village  like  ours — ours  indeed!  well,  well — are  hunger 
— first,  second,  and  third,  hunger — then  damp,  rags, 
long  hours  of  work  in  malarious  fields,  and  the  conta- 
gion of  crowded  dens  at  night,  where  the  family  is 
huddled  together  for  warmth  and  affection.  Are  you 
aware,  Signer,  that  in  nearly  three  thousand  communes 
of  this  wasted  land  malaria  is  king?  Malaria,  deadly 
as  in  an  African  swamp.  '  Italia  la  bella!'  you  tourists 
exclaim.  I  say,  '  Italia  la  pestilente ! '  We  live  here 
on  the  brink  of  the  Pontine  Marshes ;  our  peasants  go 
down  every  day  and  toil  a  dozen  hours  in  their  killing 
vapors,  which  rise  unseen  but  everlastingly  into  that 
divine  sky  of  ours.  Fever  and  famine,  fever  and  fam- 
ine ;  there  is  Italia  la  bella  for  you!" 

"  But  is  there  no  remedy  ?  What  is  the  Government 
doing?  The  nobles,  again?  Yourselves?" 

Gaetano's  brow  darkened.  "  The  Government  is 
taxing  life  with  its  conscription,  salt  with  its  excise, 
corn  with  heavy  duties,  and  not  long  ago  with  la  maci- 
nata ;  it  is  paying  out  the  nation's  health  and  wealth  to 
financiers  of  the  house  of  Israel.  The  nobles  are  land- 
lords with  a  chain  round  their  necks.  '  Latifundia 
perdidere  Italiam ' ;  you  have  read  the  sentence  at 
school  in  Pliny,  have  you  not?  It  is  as  true  as  ever  it 
was;  great  estates  with  us  mean  famine  and  malaria. 
But  how  can  the  nobles  help  it?  Reckon  up  the 
heirlooms  they  may  not  sell,  the  mortgages  they  have 
no  means  of  paying  off ;  then  tell  me  what  strength  is 
left  in  them  to  fight  against  fever  and  death.  Am  I 
doing  them  wrong,  father?"  taking  the  old  man's 
hand,  which  he  kissed  reverently. 

"  It  is  the  will  of  God,"  said   the  Prince,  crossing 


CHAP.  V.]  UDOLPHO  67 

himself.  "  But,  Gaetano  mio,  send  Ser  Angelo  with 
two  or  three  of  our  people  with  lanterns  to  meet  Donna 
Anastagia.  The  hour  is  late.  I  will  not  have  Costanza 
stay  out,  as  she  did  before,  the  whole  night.  Let 
Angelo  say  that  I  lay  my  commands  upon  her." 

"  I  will  go  myself,"  answered  the  young  man. 
"  Ahime,  these  holy  persons  break  all  the  command- 
ments under  pretense  of  the  love  of  God.  Signor 
Massitero,  I  am  inconsolable  at  leaving  you ;  no,  you 
are  too  kind,  I  would  not  have  you  stir  out ;  the  air  at 
this  time  is  most  dangerous.  To-morrow  night,  will 
she,  nill  she,  Donna  Costanza  shall  meet  you  at  dinner, 
and  sing — faith,  yes,  she  sings  with  the  best  of  them — 
while  you  sit  like  a  god  and  listen.  I  want  her  to 
resemble  your  English  girls  more  and  our  good  little 
nuns  less.  She  is  not  for  the  convent,  is  she,  father?  " 

"  I  desire  my  daughter  to  marry  well,"  returned  the 
Prince  gravely.  "  Had  I  two  daughters,  one  should  be 
given  to  God.  But  I  have  only  Costanza;  I  will  give 
her  to  the  man  of  my  choice." 

While  he  was  speaking,  I  pursued  in  fancy  the 
bright-haired  apparition  moving  from  one  sick-bed  to 
another,  smoothing  hot  and  feverish  brows  with  tender 
hands,  holding  to  parched  lips  a  draught  of  life,  the 
purple  sky  above  her,  and  a  halo  traveling  with  her 
every  step.  The  fever  would  not  touch  Costanza ;  she 
was  already  "a  thing  enskied  and  sainted."  What  did 
the  Prince  mean  by  talking  of  her  marriage  ?  Costanza, 
rapt  into  that  flame  which  burned  and  did  not  consume, 
would  never  marry.  Once  more  I  say,  Laura,  had  ycu 
seen  the  expression  on  her  countenance  as  I  saw  it, 
you  would  think  as  I  think. 


CHAPTER   VI 

SICILIANS    DANCING 

'T^HREE  days  fell  into  the  gulf,  slowly,  silently — 
J_  drops  of  rain  that  left  no  trace.  I  was  in  a  dense 
solitude.  The  castle,  rich  in  tapestries  that  I  could  not  be 
at  the  pains  of  deciphering,  and  in  wall-paintings  reduced 
to  smutches  of  gray  or  green,  possessed  no  library,  and 
was  vacant  of  inhabitants  in  its  once  gorgeous  rooms. 
I  became  a  student  of  landscape,  faute  de  mieux.  The 
devout  Costanza  was  invisible ;  the  Prince  and  his  son 
had  their  occupations  which  took  them  abroad  every 
morning  early ;  and  Gaetano  counseled  me  not  to  cross 
the  enchanted  threshold  within  which  I  was  held  a 
prisoner.  "  Let  this  affair  die  away  first,"  he  said. 
"  Our  peasants  have  the  eyes  of  a  lynx  and  the  ears 
of  a  wizard ;  should  they  suspect  anything,  woe  to  the 
man  they  fix  upon."  I  consented  unwillingly;  though 
once,  as  you  know,  I  did  escape  into  the  open  after 
that  storm.  But  even  my  second-hand  clothes  might 
have  betrayed  me ;  and  I  had  no  others  until  we  could 
order  some  in  Rome. 

"  It  strikes  me,"  said  Gaetano,  on  the  Thursday 
following  my  arrival,  "  that  we  can  furnish  you  with 
garments,  not  your  own — non  sua  poma — in  which  to 
appear  this  evening,  when  you  will  meet  my  aunt  and 
sister.  My  own  wardrobe  has  nothing  suitable.  But 
to-day  there  has  arrived  the  baggage  of  Signor 

68 


CHAP.  VI.]  SICILIANS  DANCING  69 

Hagedorn — Albaspina  I  call  him  instead  of  his  guttural 
German  name — who  is  coming  next  week  with  friends 
to  make  up  a  shooting-party.  He  is  about  your  height 
and  size.  Will  you  try  some  of  his  things?" 

"Who  is  Signer  Hagedorn?"  I  inquired  in  turn. 
"  Is  he  young  or  old?  punctilious  or  easy-going?  You 
know  what  they  say  in  France  about  '  une  querelle 
d'allemands.'  As  I  have  one  quarrel  on  my  hands,  I 
am  loath  to  undertake  a  second." 

"  Hagedorn — Albaspina — is  a  man  of  sixty,  rich, 
tranquil,  and  a  philosopher.  At  least,  he  calls  himself 
a  philosopher;  I  call  him  a  curiosity.  The  purchase 
of  antiques  is  a  mania  with  him ;  he  was  never  married, 
is  a  tolerable  shot,  worships  our  family — we  are  an- 
tiques, I  suppose — and  comes  whenever  the  fancy  takes 
him.  He  will  not  quarrel  with  you,  unless  you  carried 
in  your  pocket  a  medal  of  Didius  Julianus.  Ah  then, 
per  Bacco,  your  life  would  not  be  worth  a  sham 
bronze,  such  as  they  palm  off  on  the  Americans  at 
Pompeii!" 

"So  that  is  his  mania!  Well,  every  one  has  what 
God  sends  him.  I  am  safe  from  the  plague  of  medal- 
hunting.  But  will  Donna  Costanza  dine  to-night? 
Has  she  done  with  nursing  the  fever?" 

"  How  done?  I  believe  she  has  some  fresh  patients. 
As  I  will  not  encourage  her  in  this  fine  profession,  I 
pretend  not  to  hear  what  she  says  of  her  doings.  But 
yes,  she  shall  dine — and  sing,  did  I  not  promise  you? 
Sing  likewise.  Now,  my  dear  prisoner,  to  your  room. 
The  lion  is  not  seen  by  day.  But,  first,  we  will  break 
into  the  trunks  of  Albaspina." 

With  the  aid  of  Ser  Angelo,  and  the  indispensable 
native  virtue  of  patience,  we  did  so.  Among  his 
accoutrements,  the  philosopher  had  an  unpretending 
suit  of  apparel,  which  would  serve  for  morning  and 
evening;  I  put  off  my  Roman  citizenship  with  the 


70  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

stage-dress  that  Finocchio  had  bought  for  me  in 
Giubbonari;  and  in  my  new  disguise  felt  and  looked 
such  a  different  man  that  Gaetano  could  not  help  ex- 
claiming, "  Dio  mio,  you  might  now  outface  bandit  and 
policeman;  they  would  not  know  you.  But  keep  in 
your  den,  I  entreat.  There  was  some  confused  talk 
last  night  in  the  village,  Angelo  tells  me,  about  I  know 
not  what — brigands  in  a  tussle  with  the  pubblica 
sicurezza.  It  may  be  of  no  consequence ;  we  shall  see." 

I  heard  no  more  of  it,  and  thought  as  little,  when  we 
sat,  a  pleased  company,  at  dinner,  the  two  ladies  doing 
the  honors  with  a  simplicity  which  was  quite  unlike  the 
brilliant  French  manner,  and  as  far  as  possible  from 
our  dear,  dull,  Sainte  Nitouche  Britannic  fashion  of 
entertaining  strangers.  Donna  Anastagia,  in  some 
beautiful  old  lace  and  stately  silk,  took  the  head  of  the 
table.  Her  niece,  in  white  muslin,  I  should  call  it,  but 
Heaven  knows — I  was  never  a  genius  at  sketching 
millinery — anyhow,  glorious  as  an  angel,  radiant  with 
a  single  red  rose  on  her  breast,  and  shining  curls  over 
this  exquisite  high  dress,  looked  straight  at  me  between 
the  woodland  creatures  in  silver  that  held  up  the  lights, 
and  talked  without  a  shadow  of  embarrassment  or 
prudery.  Not  that  she  talked  much.  Her  disposition, 
I  thought,  was  to  be  silent.  But  she  had  the  prettiest 
expressions.  I  ventured  to  suppose  her  tired  after 
three  nights'  watching  by  sick  beds. 

"  Part  of  me  is  asleep,"  she  said,  turning  her  frank 
eyes  toward  me,  "  or  perhaps  I  am  in  two  places  at 
once.  I  hear  you  lamenting  over  the  terrible  newness 
of  the  mosaics  on  the  fafade  of  San  Marco,  and  I  see 
myself  at  Venice  again — we  were  there  last  year.  I 
could  even  point  out  the  figures,  and  feel  sad,  as  you 
do,  when  the  gold  glitters  so  defiantly  at  us.  Yet,  all 
the  while,  I  am  with  my  sick,  with  poor  old  Candia 
and  her  husband,  and  that  wicked  Renzo." 


CHAP.  VI.]  SICILIANS  DANCING  71 

"  Is  it  Renzo  that  was  brought  up  here  yesterday  at 
dusk?"  inquired  Gaetano. 

"  I  imagine  it"  said  Costanza;  "  the  uncle,  you  know, 
has  a  quartan  ague ;  and  Candia — well,  Candia  is  a 
vecchiarella,  poor  and  old — " 

"  Candia  is  a  Strega — a  witch,"  cries  her  brother. 
"  If  she  stayed  at  home,  instead  of  trafficking  in 
amulets  and  keepsakes  with  all  the  girls  and  married 
women  from  Roccaforte  to  Circeo,  she  would  have 
plenty  of  time  to  look  after  Pasquale.  But  she  leaves 
him  cold  and  frozen." 

I  felt  a  certain  interest  in  the  tale  which  Gaetano 
interrupted.  "Who  is  Renzo?"  I  asked.  "And  why 
was  he  brought  here  yesterday?" 

"Renzo  is  Candia's  nephew,"  replied  the  Princess; 
"  he  is  not  one  of  our  villagers." 

"God  be  praised,"  threw  in  her  brother,  "he  is 
capable  of  anything — una  galera — a  galley-slave." 

"  But  his  aunt  has  always  been  good  to  him,"  said 
the  girl.  "  Yesterday  two  of  his  companions  brought 
him  between  them  up  from  I  don't  know  where ;  he 
had  lost  his  senses  after  being  wounded — badly  hurt  he 
is.  There  was  no  place  but  Candia's  to  lay  him  in, 
though  Pasquale  had  the  bed." 

"  Did  you  hear  nothing  more  of  the  circumstances, 
Signorina?  How  was  he  wounded?" 

She  smiled  and  looked  grave.  "  I  heard  this  tale 
and  that;  our  peasants  are  attached  to  us,  but  they 
never  let  us  know  their  secrets.  When  we  began  to 
bathe  his  wounds,  my  aunt  and  I,  we  found  a  bad  con- 
tusion over  the  forehead ;  and  there  was  a  wound  be- 
tween the  shoulders.  But  Renzo  would  not  open  his 
lips  as  long  as  we  stayed.  He  will  confess  all  to 
Candia,  if  he  lives." 

Don  Gaetano  was  silent ;  his  father  had  taken  no  part 
in  the  conversation,  and  I  felt  it  must  drop.  Neverthe- 


72  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

less,  I  put  one  more  question.  Trifling  with  my  glass 
of  Orvieto,  I  said  to  Donna  Costanza,  "  But  if  this  man 
is  not  of  Roccaforte,  what  paese  has  the  honor  of  him  ?  " 

"  He  belongs  to  Cartena — the  village  on  the  hillside 
which  you  can  see  from  our  windows." 

I  felt  more  uneasy  than  at  any  moment  since  I  struck 
my  villain  down  in  the  Via  dei  Serpenti.  Was  this 
Renzaccio?  And  had  my  bamboo  inflicted  a  serious 
wound?  Certainly  I  was  not  answerable  for  the  cut 
between  the  shoulders ;  that,  if  it  was  my  man,  must 
have  been  the  work  of  some  one  else.  How  could  I 
make  sure?  Go  into  the  village,  see  this  Candia,  and 
get  a  glimpse  of  the  injured  ruffian?  That  he  was  a 
gallows'  bird  I  took  to  be  evident.  "  Yes,  it  is  my 
Renzaccio,"  I  concluded  in  my  own  mind.  "  And  now, 
will  he  die  or  live?" 

Gaetano  was  teasing  his  sister  to  play  and  sing.  She 
refused  with  a  charming  naivete.  "It  is  true  I  sing; 
and  you  say  a  beautiful  voice  gives  pleasure ;  and  I  have 
it  not  for  myself.  But  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  be  doing 
penance.  Why  did  I  leave  my  sick  this  evening? 
There  is  only  Candia  to  wait  on  those  poor  things.  I 
cannot  sing  now,  fratel  mio.  The  Signer  will  pardon  me." 

"  You  will  have  to  pull  out  all  the  stops — give  the 
whole  orchestra  when  Sismondo  arrives  next  week," 
said  her  brother  mischievously.  "  Won't  you  practise 
before  he  comes?" 

Costanza  laughed  and  looked  merry.  "  Do  I  pay 
court  to  Sismondo — Marchese  di  Lucera,  and  all  the 
rest — or  does  he  pay  court  to  me  ?  Signer  Albaspina 
has  the  finer  ear;  if  I  sing,  it  will  be  to  him.  And,  of 
course,  to  our  guest,"  with  an  open  smile,  singularly 
resembling  her  brother's.  "  Sismondo  ?  But  Sismondo 
is  too  much  of  an  actor;  he  is  a  meridionale;  he  poses, 
struts  about,  strikes  an  attitude — so,"  and  the  girl  threw 
herself  into  a  statuesque  posture,  at  which  the  Prince 


CHAP.  VI.]  SICILIANS  DANCING  73 

and  Gaetano  laughed  heartily.  It  was  sudden  and 
effective ;  one  could  see  the  man.  But  Donna  Anas- 
tagia  frowned — not  very  severely.  "  Ah  cattiva,  don't 
mock,"  she  said.  "Take  off  your  husband  when  you 
are  married,  well  and  good.  Before  marriage,  it  is  un- 
lucky ;  you  should  not  quarrel  with  your  dinner  before 
you  eat  it." 

"  I  would  not  touch  Sismondo  with  my  finger-tip,  let 
alone  with  my  teeth,"  cried  her  niece,  running  up  to 
the  elder  lady  and  kissing  her.  "  Husband  me  no  hus- 
band, Donna  Anastagia,  until  I  beg  the  signor  padre  to 
give  me  one  at  the  Befana — for  a  Christmas  box.  Then 
you  may  forbid  mocking." 

We  were  scattered  now  in  the  Great  Hall,  at  unequal 
distances  from  the  fire,  which  had  been  lit  on  this  cold 
evening.  Costanza  moved  restlessly  to  and  fro,  in  a 
half-dancing  humor,  but  could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to 
seat  herself  at  the  piano,  an  instrument  which  I  had  not 
expected  to  see  in  the  castle  of  the  Sorelli.  The  night 
was  sharp  without  being  unpleasant.  A  moon,  which 
was  growing  toward  the  full,  made  long  swaths  of 
brightness  through  the  uncurtained  windows  looking 
into  the  cortile;  and  we  were  roaming  backward  and 
forward  between  the  deep  shades,  when  from  outside 
the  sound  of  a  mandolin  floated  up,  and  voices  broke 
on  the  stillness. 

"  We  shall  have  music,  after  all,  to  spite  you,"  ex- 
claimed Gaetano,  leading  his  sister  close  to  the  window; 
"  but  who  are  these?  " 

Ser  Angelo  entered  and  spoke  to  the  Prince.  "  A 
troop  of  poor  Sicilians,  Eccellenza,"  was  his  report.  "  I 
allowed  them  to  pass  the  gate.  May  they  show  their 
skill?" 

The  Duke  turned  to  Donna  Costanza  with  his  lordly 
manner,  as  if  enjoying  the  joke.  "  Either  you  or  they, 
figlia  mia;  which  shall  it  be?  " 


74  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

The  girl  made  a  feint  of  clapping  her  hands.  "  Sicil- 
ians, father?  They,  of  course;  who  but  they?  Let 
them  dance  too,  and  act  a  comedy  for  us.  But  bring 
them  in;  it  is  freezing  in  the  courtyard.  Bring  them 
in." 

"  Ah,  Signorina,"  I  said  imploringly.  "  Don't  call 
them  up  yet.  See  what  a  picture  in  the  moonlight! 
They  are  dancing  already;  it  will  keep  them  warm 
enough.  Do  watch  them  as  they  turn  and  take  one 
another  round  the  waist,  and  beat  time  with  their  feet. 
They  are  model  dancers." 

We  threw  open  a  long  window,  about  which  our  little 
group  was  standing  in  chiaroscuro,  with  the  rays  of 
moonlight  touching  a  feature  here  and  there ;  it  was 
reflected  from  the  diamonds  of  Donna  Anastagia,  and 
caught  by  the  young  girl's  robes  as  in  a  perfect  snow- 
storm, out  of  which  her  bright  eyes  and  golden  hair 
emerged  with  strange  brilliancy.  The  dancers  kept  on 
dancing;  the  mandolin  awoke  a  second  and  a  third 
instrument  as  to  innumerable  echoes ;  and  down  into 
the  deep  cortile  fell  the  fairy  light,  broken  and  uncertain 
where  the  buildings  cast  their  shadows,  but  in  the  higher 
regions  victorious  and  still.  Faces  went  and  came; 
hands  were  lifted,  clasped,  untwined ;  the  dancing  figures 
multiplied  themselves  and  quickened  their  steps;  and 
always  the  mandolins  interpreted  their  movements  with 
a  ripple,  and  a  chant,  and  a  laugh,  and  a  sigh,  never 
quite  serious,  but  questioning  slyly  and  whispering 
maliciously,  and  once  in  a  way  striking  the  most  sullen 
note  they  could  shake  from  their  fantastic  dreams,  in 
which  all  was  play  and  merriment.  Such  a  torrent  of 
words  flowed  along  with  them  as  the  lutes  babbled  and 
chattered,  ringing  out  metallically  and  then  melting  into 
soft  cadences  that,  unless  one  were  an  adept  in  Sicilian, 
it  would  have  been  hopeless  to  understand  them ;  but 
love-making  has  much  the  same  tones  in  all  languages, 


CHAP.  VI.]  SICILIANS  DANCING  75 

and  this  was  their  subject,  expounded  in  swift  panto- 
mime. 

"  No,  indeed,  they  will  not  freeze — your  dancing 
musicians,"  I  said  to  Donna  Costanza.  "  But  they  may 
catch  a  chill  when  they  have  finished  their  pirouetting." 

"True,  true,"  she  replied;  "father,  tell  them  they 
must  come  indoors.  The  hall  is  large  enough  to  be  a 
theater.  Call  them  up."  She  made  him  a  charming 
little  courtesy,  which  seemed  to  take  her  inside  the  dance 
that  was  still  going  on  below.  The  music,  I  thought, 
had  leaped  into  her  blood. 

Orders  were  given,  the  great  doors  thrown  apart; 
the  servants  of  the  house  came  in;  and  as  we  took  our 
seats  in  anticipation,  a  sound  of  tramping  feet  was  heard 
on  the  stone  staircase,  and  in  rushed  a  motley  array  of 
men  and  women,  picturesque  enough  in  their  parti- 
colored rags,  who  shuffled  about  to  find  places  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  hall,  where  the  moonlight  was  stream- 
ing. Our  silence  and  the  peculiar  and  uncanny  light 
seemed  to  scare  the  intruders.  They  shrank  together 
as  if  terrified.  But  a  small,  dark  man,  in  a  red  jacket 
and  a  Tyrolese  hat,  who  had  taken  the  part  of  con- 
ductor in  the  revels  outside,  now  came  forward,  and  with 
many  cringing  reverences  asked  the  Duke's  pleasure. 
He  turned,  as  for  an  answer,  to  Donna  Costanza. 

"  Ah,"  she  said  laughingly,  "  what  must  they  play, 
now  we  have  caught  them?  Come,  let  them  give  us 
one  of  their  island  dances — a  ballad  of  action ;  some- 
thing that  shall  taste  of  Sicily,  like  its  own  honey." 

Don  Gaetano  spoke  to  the  man  in  red,  who  reflected 
for  a  moment. 

"  I  have  it,  Eccellenza,"  he  said,  smiling  and  exhibit- 
ing a  double  range  of  white  teeth.  "  We  will  give  you 
*  Beppuccio  il  valente  '  ('  Brave  young  Joe  '),  and  therein, 
please  God,  you  shall  admire  a  few  steps  of  the  virdu- 
lidda  and  the  capona.  Don't  fear;  they  are  beautiful 


76  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

dances — most  beautiful!"  holding  up  both  hands  in 
ecstasy.  "  And  I  will  explain  to  your  lordships  with- 
out delay  what  the  ballad  means  in  your  good  Italian." 

We  encouraged  Red  Jacket  to  proceed. 

"  Behold  then,  Signori  Principi !  It  is  a  festa  in  the 
Conca  d'Oro,  at  lovely  Palermo.  The  lads  have  money 
in  their  pockets,  plenty  of  the  flying  and  the  ringing, 
carta  volante,  danaro  sonante;  and  they  go  to  drink 
good  old  wine  at  the  new  tavern,  under  the  spreading 
boughs — red  wine,  a  carlino  a  flask.  Who  are  the  boys  ? 
Why,  of  course,  Beppuccio,  Cicco,  Andrea,  Tonio,  and 
the  others.  Many  a  glass  is  wiped.  But  Beppuccio  is 
the  best  by  far;  drinks  like  a  malandrino,  save  the 
mark ;  and  then  they  divert  themselves  with  morra  and 
gaming,  with  the  dance  and  the  chitarra.  But,  ahime ! 
young  blood  is  soon  hot;  they  can't  agree;  they  begin 
to  show  their  teeth ;  some  one  knocks  over  the  candles, 
and  out  come  knives  and  flash  in  the  dark.  Santo 
Diavolone,  how  they  fight!  Zazza!  he  that  dies,  dies; 
and  who  is  dead  then?  Bring  a  torch!  Ah,  villains, 
they  're  off.  Lights  here!  See  Beppuccio  the  un- 
lucky, the  lad  of  honor,  lying  dead  with  seven  stabs  in 
him.  But  the  traitors — fled!  Not  a  man  caught. 
Beppo  is  carried  home,  a  corpse.  Thus  it  ends,  a 
lovely  ballad,  signori  illustrissimi ;  Sicilian  to  the  knife- 
blade." 

Our  scarlet  prompter  concludes  with  a  ringing  laugh 
and  a  bow,  and  turns  on  his  heel.  In  a  second  the 
mandolins  are  alive;  two  sonatori  step  forward,  strike 
up,  and  commence  the  recitative.  Meanwhile  the 
others,  men  and  women,  take  their  positions,  hum  the 
lines  between  their  teeth,  and  give  us  in  pantomimic 
action  every  syllable  their  choragus  has  uttered,  and  a 
world  besides.  They  push  into  the  taverna  nova; 
demand  the  best  liquor  and  no  end  of  it;  touch  glasses, 
embrace,  and  tumble  into  a  sort  of  jig,  with  caperings 


CHAP.  VI.]  SICILIANS  DANCING  77 

most  ludicrous.  Then  the  women  drop  into  the  back- 
ground; the  men  gamble,  scream,  spring  into  the  air; 
knives  are  out,  Beppuccio  is  on  the  floor;  the  rest 
scamper  away. 

So  inimitable  a  rehearsing  was  all  this  of  the  scene  I 
had  witnessed  at  Ranieri's  that,  if  I  could  believe  the 
devil  has  any  humor  (which  I  do  not),  the  suspicion 
might  have  occurred  to  me  that  some  facetious  ape  out 
of  hell  was  playing  on  my  uneasy  conscience,  with  a 
phantasmagoria  well  adapted  to  the  occasion.  As  for 
the  audience,  first  it  sat  quiet,  and  then  was  wrought  up 
to  an  enthusiasm  in  which  it  went  fairly  mad  along  with 
the  actors.  Even  Donna  Anastagia  laughed  and  cried. 
I  watched  her  young  companion ;  and  though  Donna 
Costanza  did  not  lose  control  over  her  features,  I  could 
tell  that  she  was  inwardly  amused  by  the  frequent 
trembling  of  her  lower  lip.  Certainly  it  was  wonderful 
acting.  The  room  in  which  we  sat  became,  as  by 
magic,  the  new  tavern,  with  its  drinking,  dancing,  and 
Beppuccio  lying  stabbed  in  the  sawdust.  But  some- 
thing still  more  wonderful  was  to  happen  now. 

For,  all  at  once,  without  warning,  we  heard  the  sullen 
stroke  of  a  bell.  It  was  so  natural,  so  much  a  part  of 
the  play,  that  we  gazed  round  upon  one  another,  as  if 
inquiring  who  had  done  it.  There  could  be  no  mistake. 

The  bell,  which  had  given  forth  a  solemn  note  and 
then  ceased,  began  tolling  again.  At  that  unearthly 
summons  the  company  of  actors,  startled  even  more 
than  the  rest  of  us  had  been,  broke  and  dispersed. 
The  mandolins  fell  silent  with  a  shriek.  We  could 
hear  a  tumultuous  rushing  downstairs  and  a  struggle  at 
the  entrance.  Springing  to  the  window,  I  beheld  the 
Sicilians  coursing  like  deer  in  the  moonlight,  over  the 
courtyard  and  through  the  castle  gates.  They  were 
vanished  into  night,  into  space.  But  the  bell  kept  up 
its  death-striking  monologue;  and  I  dreaded  the  next 


78  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

words  that  must  fall  from  the  lips  of  Donna  Costanza. 
Too  well  I  knew  what  they  would  be. 

Listening  in  the  attitude  of  one  counting  the  strokes, 
but  without  betraying  signs  of  alarm,  she  said  to  her 
brother  in  a  feeling  undertone,  "  Oh,  why  did  you 
keep  me  here  to-night?  It  is  Renzo's  passing  bell. 
I  am  sure  of  it." 

"You  think  Renzo  is  dead?"  I  asked,  subduing  my 
voice  to  hers. 

"  It  can  be  no  other,"  she  replied.  "  He  was  at 
death's  door  this  afternoon." 

And  I  said  to  myself,  between  rage  and  compassion, 
"Am  I  then  his  murderer?" 

What  had  I  done  ?  What  had  befallen  me,  to  whom 
the  shedding  even  of  guilty  blood  was  not  only  in- 
human, but  a  crime  ?  That  last  blow,  into  which  I  threw 
the  weight  of  passion  as  I  struck,  lay  heavy  on  my 
soul.  To-morrow  would  reveal  whether  it  had  proved 
fatal  to  him — and  to  me. 


CHAPTER   VII 

REQUIEM    .ETERNAM 

I  SLEPT ;  but  my  sleep  was  troubled.  An  oppressive 
burden  lay  upon  me  in  visions  which  had  no  more 
coherence  than  a  number  of  half-finished  designs 
flung  into  a  heap,  yet  the  burden  did  not  shift  or  lessen, 
and  when  I  was  fully  awake  in  the  still  hour  of  dawn,  I  felt 
bruised  in  all  my  limbs,  weary,  and  disconsolate.  The 
bell  was  tolling.  "Heavens!"  I  said  to  myself,  "  has 
it  never  stopped?  Or  am  I  suffering  from  hallucina- 
tions ? "  I  dressed  and  hurried  into  the  courtyard, 
where  I  found  Ser  Angelo  making  his  way  toward  the 
stables. 

"Why  does  the  bell  keep  ringing?"  I  asked  him,  in 
a  voice  that  sounded  hollow  to  my  ear. 

"  It  is  the  Requiem  Mass  for  old  Candia's  nephew 
that  died  last  night,"  he  answered,  with  a  gesture  of 
unconcern.  "  Santiddio,  he  will  be  in  want  of  one ! 
They  should  be  praying  for  him  at  Cartena.  Why  do 
they  cast  their  dirty  water  at  our  door?" 

"  I  should  like  to  watch  the  funeral,"  said  I,  after 
thinking  in  vain  how  to  beguile  the  story  of  Renzo's 
death  from  him.  "When  will  it  be?  Your  customs 
are  different  from  ours  in  the  North." 

Angelo  looked  under  his  eyebrows  at  me.  "  It 
should  be  this  evening,  at  the  Ave  Maria.  But  will 
your  Excellence  be  pleased  to  rub  shoulders  with  a 
crowd  ?  For  I  doubt  not  many  will  be  there,  neighbors 

79 


8o  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

and  kinsfolk,  from  Cartena  and  all  round.  Renzo  had 
a  great  reputation ;  moreover,  if  as  they  say  he  was 
wounded  to  death,  the  people  will  flock  to  have  a  sight 
of  him.  I  pity  the  man  that  did  it.  The  Corsicans  are 
not  worse  devils  than  the  Cartenesi." 

"  They  will  revenge  it,  you  think?  " 

"Revenge,  Signer!  Trust  them  for  that.  I  have 
stood  by  when  a  brother  and  a  wife  dipped  their  fingers 
in  the  blood  of  the  murdered  man,  and  licked  them — 
the  tigers — in  token  of  vendetta.  Renzo  leaves  wife 
and  children;  and  there  is  Nonna  Candia  (old  mother 
Candia),  she  never  forgives,  and  knows  more  than  is 
good  for  her.  Ah,  yes,  I  pity  the  assassin." 

"  He  is  certainly  to  be  pitied.  However,  Signer 
Angelo,  supposing  I  strolled  down  an  hour  or  so  before 
the  Ave,  would  the  crowd  be  so  pressing?  It  is  a 
curious  spectacle,  which  I  am  anxious  not  to  miss." 

"  If  Don  Gaetano  were  to  go  with  you,  all  would  be 
well,  Ser  Inglese.  You  might  even  see  the  body  laid 
out  at  Candia's.  I  know  the  Principessa  will  be  there 
to  comfort  her." 

I  felt  in  greater  need  of  comfort,  all  that  lugubrious 
day,  than  the  wise  woman  who  bore  a  classical  name 
redolent  of  Horace  and  Paganism,  and  who,  as  rumor 
would  have  it,  pursued  the  good  old  trade  of  witchcraft 
up  in  these  hills.  That  Renzaccio  and  her  nephew 
were  not  two,  but  one,  a  growing  conviction,  or  sense 
of  obscure  fatality,  was  burning  into  my  brain.  I 
stood  on  trial  in  a  court  where  I  was  judge  and  jury, 
agitated  but  inexorable :  and  the  evening  would  unfold 
against  me  evidence,  the  strength  of  which  I  foresaw 
with  shuddering.  I  had  killed  a  man — a  villain, 
doubtless,  and  in  self-defense,  and  from  the  best  of 
motives.  It  mattered  not;  this  right  hand  had  slain 
him.  I  could  not  bear  to  look  at  it.  An  impulse 
which  I  made  it  a  point  of  honor  to  resist  prompted 


CHAP.  VII.]  REQUIEM  ^ETERNAM  81 

me  again  and  again  to  rinse  my  fingers  in  cold  water. 
That  physical  disgust  which  returned  like  a  sickness  I 
could  not  wholly  overcome.  There  were  two  men  in 
me — the  culprit  waking  sulkily  out  of  his  slumbers,  the 
judge  standing  severe  above  him.  I  was  a  puzzle  to 
myself;  I  began  to  be  a  horror. 

Don  Gaetano  had  gone  out  shooting.  He  came 
back  at  the  last  moment,  as  I  was  preparing  to  move, 
and  excused  himself  quietly,  with  a  gracious  phrase  or 
two,  and  a  far-off  look  in  his  eyes.  He  bore  all  the 
marks  of  fatigue.  Would  I  allow  him  to  beg  off,  and 
take  Ser  Angelo  as  my  guide  instead  of  him? 
Certainly;  but  while  I  answered,  my  observation, 
straying  over  his  features,  could  make  nothing  of  the 
reserved  eyes  and  firm-set  lips.  Was  he  angry  ?  Did 
he  suspect,  absolve,  or  condemn  ?  I  must  endeavor  to 
find  out  by  and  by. 

"  The  crowd  is  here,"  whispered  Ser  Angelo,  when 
we  had  arrived,  under  a  threatening  sky,  on  the  edge 
of  that  bleak  little  piazza,  with  its  barn  of  a  church,  its 
ugly  stone  fountain,  and  its  few  sordid  shops,  or  rather 
dens,  behind  whose  half-opened  doors  a  miscellaneous 
assortment  of  small  wares  was  visible.  The  clink  of 
the  blacksmith's  hammer  made  itself  heard,  in  spite  of 
a  movement  and  a  din  such  as  angry  bees  stir  up  on 
a  day  of  swarming.  All  the  rags  in  Christendom 
appeared  to  have  furnished  their  quota  to  the  greasy, 
unwashed  garments  of  the  men,  some  of  whom  were 
clothed  in  sheepskins  and  might  have  been  sylvan 
monsters,  let  loose  from  the  chestnut  groves  around; 
nor  did  the  women  display  much  that  was  neat  or  hand- 
some, though  they  flaunted  staring  red,  yellow,  and 
blue  in  profusion,  and  some  ancient  gold  and  silver 
jewelry.  All  alike  moved  on  high  wooden  sandals, 
with  an  awkward  gait  reminding  me  of  children  on 


82  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BooK  I. 

stilts.  They  were  not  beautiful  people,  being — to 
speak  the  honest  truth — weather-tanned,  long-featured, 
muscular,  uncouth,  and  desperately  foul.  I  had  called 
Renzaccio  a  satyr;  well  might  these  be  his  cousins 
male  and  female — the  remnant  of  hill-tribes  dating 
from  immemorial  antiquity,  who  had  sat  on  their 
heights  watching  the  stream  of  history  pass  by,  but 
never  bathed  in  its  waters — or  in  any  other. 

The  day  had  turned  to  rain,  with  flying  showers  and 
a  cold  east  wind.  In  the  sky  were  long  streamers  of 
cloud,  showing  blue  between  them  and  silvery  edges; 
but  it  was  a  cold  prospect,  under  which  these  dreary 
houses,  and  the  crowd  at  their  base,  made  a  picture, 
mean  no  less  than  repulsive.  The  very  rain,  as  it  fell, 
seemed  hideous  and  dirty.  But  rain  or  no  rain,  every 
minute  yielded  a  fresh  accession  to  the  crowd.  With 
Angelo  guiding  me,  I  turned  into  the  steep  and  horrible 
byway — which  Kafirs,  I  dare  say,  would  have  kept 
more  free  from  unspeakable  pollutions — and  went  up 
to  a  rude  stone  hovel  built  close  into  the  rock,  on  the 
threshold  of  which  a  masculine-looking  hag,  with  bare 
head  and  hair  in  disorder,  was  yelling  out  directions  to 
some  half-naked  children  as  filthy  as  herself. 

"  Ecco  la  Candia,"  said  the  steward.  "  Donna 
Costanza  will  have  gone  in." 

"Into  that  cellar?"  I  inquired  with  astonishment; 
for  it  seemed  rather  an  opening  in  the  massive  lime- 
stone rock — a  cavern  faced  with  rough  masonry — than 
a  human  dwelling. 

"  That  is  where  the  people  live,"  he  answered;"  there 
Renzo  is  laid  out.  Good  eveninsr,  la  madre!  This 

o* 

gentleman  from  the  castle  has  heard  of  Renzo's 
misfortune;  he  would  like  to  see  him." 

Candia  threw  back  her  wind-swept  locks,  and  turned 
sharply  on  me  two  .sunken  eyes,  in  which  red  lightning 
gleamed.  She  could  not  possibly  know  who  I  was: 


CHAP.  VII.]  REQUIEM  ^ETERNAM  83 

my  borrowed  plumes  made  me  a  very  different  bird 
from  the  visitant  of  the  trattoria,  even  if  Renzo  had 
described  him  to  his  aunt.  Accordingly,  I  made  no 
scruple  of  looking  her  fixedly  in  the  face  without  say- 
ing a  word.  Our  eyes  met.  No  sooner  had  they  done 
so  than,  to  my  surprise  and — yes,  solemn  as  the  occa- 
sion was  I  must  confess  it — to  my  amusement,  her 
bony  fingers  stole  down  to  her  side,  and  she  pointed 
with  them  toward  the  ground.  Candia  was  "  making 
the  horns "  against  me.  She  had  seen  in  my  pro- 
longed stare  the  jettatura;  I  had  the  evil  eye. 

This  encounter  of  enemies  did  not  last  many  seconds ; 
but  it  was  enough  to  open  the  way  before  me.  "  The 
Signor  is  welcome  to  come  in  where  my  poor  little 
nephew  is  lying,"  Candia  began  with  a  simper,  which 
disfigured  her  wrinkled  features  more  than  a  deadly 
grin — features  so  amazingly  fierce,  so  ancient,  dusty, 
and  leathern,  that  no  imagination  could  feign  they  had 
ever  been  attractive.  But  the  simper  vanished  in  a  cry 
which  rose  from  her  shaking  throat,  "  Let  him  count 
the  wounds  too,  and  guess  the  assassin!  Devil  choke 
him  with  the  clotted  blood,  whoever  he  may  be!" 

At  that  sudden  outburst,  Donna  Costanza  came  from 
the  filthy  den.  "  Nonna,  Nonna,  it  is  the  will  of  God," 
she  whispered  in  her  sweet  voice,  putting  her  arm 
round  the  neck  of  the  Fury.  "  Patience,  mia  cara;  do 
not  curse,  do  not  blaspheme.  God  will  have  pardoned 
your  Renzo." 

She  was  already  beckoning  me  to  enter.  "  He  is  in 
there,"  she  said.  "Tread  gently,  and  do  not  wake 
Pasquale,  the  husband — he  is  asleep  after  the  troubles 
of  yesterday." 

Candia  stood  aside,  still  making  the  horns,  as  we 
passed  her.  I  felt  a  thrill  of  repugnance  at  the  step  I 
was  now  compelled  to  take ;  yet  the  next  minutes 
would  bring  the  certitude  which  was  easier  to  bear  than 


84  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

suspense.  The  roof  was  low,  the  rafters  blackened 
with  age  and  smoke ;  a  small,  square  window  without 
glass  in  either  of  the  two  dungeon-like  rooms  that 
made  all  the  cottage  gave  such  light  as  the  autumnal 
day  could  afford.  We  crept  by  the  sleeping  Pasquale, 
Donna  Costanza  preceding  us  with  a  church  taper, 
blessed  at  Candlemas,  burning  in  her  hand,  which,  as 
we  drew  near  the  long  table,  she  held  aloft,  throwing  a 
faint  ray  upon  what  was  stretched  out  there  waiting 
for  burial.  I  shut  my  eyes  by  an  involuntary  move- 
ment, but  with  a  sense  of  cowardice.  But  I  must  see 
my  doom.  Snatching  the  taper,  I  took  one  stride  to 
the  bier,  and  looked  down  on  the  dead  face.  Ah,  now 
I  knew!  It  was  Renzaccio. 

I  held  the  light  close,  in  silence,  stooping  to  get  a 
nearer  view  of  the  shaggy  head  and  the  long,  lantern 
jaws,  which  I  remembered  as  clearly  as  a  portrait- 
painter  might  have  done,  who  had  been  many  days 
learning  their  lines  by  heart.  The  hair  and  beard  were 
now  decently  trimmed ;  the  face  looked  strangely 
peaceful ;  it  bore  no  mark  of  violence.  Forcing  myself 
to  do  so  calmly,  I  lifted  a  tuft  of  the  still  matted  locks 
from  off  the  forehead,  where  a  red  streak  peeped  out; 
and  I  had  the  impression  of  a  severe  scalp  wound  un- 
derneath my  ringers.  Should  I  draw  them  back  crim- 
son? No,  they  were  unstained,  except  in  my  mind's 
eye,  which  beheld  them  dabbled  in  blood. 

"  You  spoke  of  another  wound,"  I  whispered  to 
Donna  Costanza. 

"Eccola!"  she  returned,  in  as  low  an  accent,  "on 
the  crown  of  the  head.  Dr.  Mirtillo  says  it  was  that 
which  killed  him,  rather  than  the  cut  between  the 
shoulders.  It  brought  on  tetanus,  he  believes.  But 
no  one  will  say  how  or  where  it  was  received." 

"Tetanus — lockjaw — did  he  die  of  that?" 

"Of    exhaustion    rather;    but    lockjaw    set    in.     I 


CHAP.  VII.]  REQUIEM  yETERNAM  85 

thought  he  would  not  speak  to  us  yesterday.  It  ap- 
pears that  he  could  not." 

"  He  could  not — hecould  not — Principessa," screamed 
the  old  woman  at  the  top  of  her  voice.  And  when 
Costanza  motioned  her  to  be  still,  "  Ah,  let  me  alone 
with  Pasquale.  He  will  wake? — let  him  wake.  Why 
should  he  be  sleeping  when  I  am  up  since  yesterday, 
and  my  darling  nipotino  massacred  ?  Speak  ?  No,  in- 
deed, neither  to  you,  nor  to  me,  his  unhappy  aunt, 
nor  to  that  angel,  Don  Antonio.  For  he  is  an  angel ! 
Here  he  knelt,  one  hour,  two  hours,  praying,  talking 
to  my  Renzo,  beseeching  him  for  one  little  sign,  only 
to  press  his  hand,  for  his  soul's  sake.  The  poverino 
was  tongue-tied.  He  rolled  his  eyes  in  agony,  want- 
ing to  speak,  to  tell  the  name  of  the  assassin.  But 
never;  before  midnight  he  was  gone." 

She  sobbed,  and  tore  at  her  disorderly  fell  of  hair  in  a 
wild  paroxysm.  It  was  with  difficulty,  by  coaxing  and 
threatening,  that  Donna  Costanza  kept  her  from  doing 
herself  some  mischief.  Pasquale  slept  on.  "  He  never 
liked  Renzo,"  she  exclaimed  suddenly;  "behold  how 
he  sleeps,  the  bestiaccia!" 

"  You  don't  know  the  assassin,"  remarked  Ser  Angelo, 
who  had  followed  us  in,  "  but  you  do  know  the  com- 
panions that  laid  Renzo  at  your  door;  is  it  not  true?" 

"  I  know  them,  signer  steward  ?  They  lie  that  say 
so.  The  poor  lad  was  brought  in  the  moonlight,  by 
three  or  four  men,  so  I  am  told — men  with  masks  on 
their  faces ;  the  children  saw  them  carrying  Renzo,  saw 
them  pitch  him  down  like  a  bundle  of  canes  at  this 
door,  e  via!  Off  with  them!  I  heard  the  heavy  fall, 
ran  out,  and  took  him  up  as  you  see  him.  Madonna 
mia,  he  is  dead,  the  best  boy  that  ever  lived,  that  I 
nursed  and  fondled !  I  was  better  than  amother  to  him." 

"Which  of  the  boys  told  you  that  tale?"  asked 
Angelo  once  more,  calmly. 


86  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

"  Eh,  many  were  playing  about.  Doro  Quaglia  and 
Giovanni  Greco  told  me;  inquire  of  them." 

I  had  been  long  enough  contemplating  the  still 
features,  in  whose  tranquility  I  suspected  a  menace, 
now  that  Renzo  could  never  more  take  up  his  own 
quarrel.  Died  and  made  no  sign!  I  should  have  to, 
question  those  boys.  Meanwhile,  aware  of  the  uni- 
versal custom  in  life  as  in  death  among  the  unabashed 
Southerners,  I  left  an  alms  in  the  witch's  talons  with 
some  insignificant  muttering,  and  turning  to  the 
Princess  besought  her  that  she  would  not  stay  longer 
in  that  plague-stricken  hole. 

"  It  is  my  place,"  she  answered  cheerfully,  "  my 
place ;  have  no  fear  for  me.  When  the  funeral  is  gone, 
I  must  console  the  poverella ;  but  I  shall  still  be  in  time 
at  the  castle.  A  rivederci!" 

There  was  no  more  to  be  said.  We  left  the  house, 
and  pushing  our  way  again  through  the  crowded 
piazza,  the  steward  and  I  managed  to  secure  a  con- 
spicuous position  on  the  steps  of  San  Romito.  The 
church  doors  were  now  flung  wide  open ;  within,  at  the 
farther  end,  six  tall  candles  were  burning  above  the 
altar,  in  front  of  which  stood  an  erection  draped  in  red, 
known  as  the  catafalque.  Sacristans  hurried  about, 
lighting  other  candles  in  the  magnificent  oak  stalls, 
glossy  and  shining,  dark  as  ebony.  But  the  building 
was  deserted  for  the  square,  although  a  fine,  small  rain 
had  begun  to  descend,  and  umbrellas,  vast  and  parti- 
colored, were  now  lifted  on  high,  transforming  the 
multitude  to  a  regiment  under  dirty  canvas.  The 
cracked  bell  overhead  persevered  in  its  doleful  recita- 
tive. But  there  was  a  hum  of  conversation  on  every 
side,  with  jokes  and  even  cracklings  of  laughter;  the 
whole  scene  was  much  more  like  a  fair  on  a  wet  after- 
noon than  the  funeral  of  a  murdered  man. 

Still,  these  were  notable  doings.     How  came  Renzo, 


CHAP.  VII.]  REQUIEM  ^ETERNAM  87 

a  peasant,  to  have  about  him  the  trappings  of  a  noble 
death  ?  I  inquired  of  Ser  Angelo ;  but  he,  in  one 
significant  word,  explained  it.  "  Donna  Costanza," 
said  the  steward.  It  was  her  charity  that  lit  the  tall 
candles,  and  prepared  the  church  for  a  solemn  dirge 
and  funeral.  Her  hand,  I  thought  to  myself,  was 
somehow  clasped  in  mine  to  make  this  ceremony. 

The  bell  tolled ;  the  people  chattered ;  and  into  the 
square  came  a  long  procession  of  specters,  clad  in  white 
dominoes,  through  which  the  eyes  shone  ghastly. 
They  walked  in  double  file,  and  carried  hideous  yellow 
torches,  from  which  the  wax  dropped  incessantly,  while 
bare-legged  children  ran  by  them,  holding  paper 
cornets  to  catch  these  "tears"  as  they  fell.  The  dead 
man  followed  on  his  bright  crimson  bier,  looking  with 
upturned,  open  face  to  the  pitying  heavens ;  and  behind 
him  moved,  without  much  order,  and  quite  without 
dignity,  an  irregular  line  of  clerics,  also  bearing  torches, 
chanting  an  interminable  nasal  monotone  as  they  came 
slouching  along.  The  crowd  was  now  suffocating  in 
the  small  piazza;  nor  could  the  funeral  make  its  way 
without  eddying  rushes  and  commotions,  as  of  a  lake 
in  violent  tempest,  and  some  feeble  cries  here  and  there 
of  people  thrown  down.  The  excitement  of  those  near 
the  body,  pressing  in  as  it  passed,  gaping  to  catch  sight 
of  the  wounds,  was  communicated  as  by  magnetism  to 
those  at  a  distance.  Upon  the  moaning  Miserere  came 
in  a  whirlwind  the  greater  human  cry;  it  was  taken 
up ;  it  was  repeated  from  end  to  end  of  the  piazza ;  it 
seemed  to  strike  along  the  steps  where  I  was  standing, 
to  bellow  into  the  church  and  be  flung  out  again,  hollow 
upon  the  wind.  The  houses  all  round  caught  it  and 
gave  it  back.  The  infection,  spreading  in  a  wave, 
seized  me  uncontrollably,  and  I  too  sobbed  aloud  with 
the  multitude. 

A  terrible  emotion  seemed  to  spring  at  my  throat. 


88  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

I  stood  alone,  facing  the  crowd,  whose  lament  for 
murder  and  witness  against  it  rose  into  the  clouds. 
But  they  were  accusing  me — me,  in  the  presence  of  the 
victim ;  me,  at  the  foot  of  the  altar.  It  was  I  who  had 
done  this  thing.  Had  I  not  disguised  myself?  acted 
the  innocent  spy?  stirred  up  Renzo  and  Carluccio  to 
their  fatal  game  of  cards?  But  for  me  this  procession 
of  white  ghosts,  chanting  and  sobbing,  would  not  now 
be  advancing  to  the  gates  before  which  I  had  taken  my 
stand,  as  though  daring  to  welcome  it.  The  roar  of 
voices  fell  upon  me  like  a  hot  breath.  I  was  stifled ; 
and  thrusting  fiercely  to  get  from  under  the  feet  of  the 
mounting  men,  at  that  moment  I  seemed  to  recognize 
in  one  of  them  who  touched  me  as  he  went  by  (the 
pale  domino  serving  him  for  a  shroud)  the  air  and  gait 
of  Tiberio  Sforza. 

If  so  it  was,  he  did  not  know  me;  at  all  events,  he 
followed  into  the  church  where  the  people  now  came 
flocking,  and  I  saw  him  no  more.  I  went  with  the 
stream.  Renzo  was  taken  beneath  the  high  catafalques ; 
the  clerics,  in  black  and  white,  filed  into  their  stalls. 
Don  Antonio,  in  a  sable  vestment,  stood  between  the 
bier  and  the  altar,  with  attendants,  holy  water,  and  a 
flaming  censer.  What  seemed  a  brief,  animated  dia- 
logue ensued,  the  priest  reciting,  the  choir  answering; 
and  ever,  while  the  gloom  of  evening  deepened,  the 
yellow  torches  gave  out  their  murky  light.  One  touch 
alone  was  needed  to  finish  this  tragedy  with  a  sublime 
stroke.  I  had  but  to  rush  forward,  throw  myself  at 
the  knees  of  Don  Antonio,  and  confess  my  guilt.  A 
mad  imagination;  yet  I  came  near  acting  it.  The 
torches,  flickering  on  that  motionless  countenance,  lent 
it  the  expression  of  life.  I  could  have  sworn  the  lips 
were  parted  in  speech;  but  if  so,  the  tones  lost  them- 
selves in  the  chanting  of  the  alternate  choirs.  Two 
figures  in  black  had  stationed  themselves  before  the 


CHAP.  VII.]  REQUIEM  ^TERNAM  89 

altar,  and  there  broke  forth  into  loud  psalmody.  The 
stalls  took  it  up.  A  continual  shifting  of  the  ranks 
went  on  in  the  body  of  the  church,  until  every  one, 
down  to  the  youngest  child,  had  put  his  hand  upon 
Renzo's  corpse,  from  curiosity  the  most  part,  I  suppose, 
but  others  to  clear  themselves  of  the  suspicion  of 
murder,  and  others — of  that  I  was  certain — to  register 
vengeance.  Among  these  last,  it  would  not  have  sur- 
prised me  to  observe  Tiberio  Sforza.  But  either  I  was 
deceived  or  he  had  taken  his  departure  when  the  dirge 
began.  If  it  was  indeed  Tiberio,  how  came  he  at 
Roccaforte,  and  in  what  relation  did  he  stand  to 
Renzaccio?  That  was  henceforth  a  new  element, 
where  all  seemed  strange. 

After  an  interval  I  resume.  I  have  been  talking 
with  Don  Antonio.  The  funeral  is  over,  and  my 
crime — if  crime  it  is  to  be  called — lies  deep  in  the 
grave  where  Renzo  sleeps,  under  a  line  of  cypresses, 
on  the  side  of  Roccaforte.  In  that  neighborhood, 
which  drew  me  like  a  magnet,  I  was  walking  to  and 
fro,  about  sunset  on  the  next  afternoon.  I  could  look 
down  here  over  the  vineyards,  among  which  the  whole 
population  seemed  busy  in  the  grape-gathering.  On 
this  natural  terrace,  the  dark  spires  of  the  mourning- 
trees  just  below  me,  I  met  the  paroco,  deep  in  medita- 
tion, his  beautiful,  aged  face  bent  earthward  and  his 
steps  uncertain.  Was  he  too  thinking  of  the  death  or 
murder  which  for  me  hung  the  heavens  with  black? 
We  paused,  saluted,  and  fell  into  conversation. 

Don  Antonio  Frezzolini — but  no  one  gives  him  his 
full  name — speaks  a  choice  Italian,  with  trills  and  sud- 
den melodies — an  old  man's  treble ;  his  shortest  phrases 
have  music  in  them.  And  the  long  line  of  pure 
crimson  in  the  western  sky ;  the  distances  faint  with  a 
pearly  tinge,  iridescent  but  immovable;  the  intense 


90  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

green  of  vineyards,  autumnal  grass,  and  reed-like 
canes;  the  animation  under  those  large  leaves,  the 
laughter  and  petulance  and  sport  among  a  people  who 
were  turning  work  to  holiday,  singing  as  they  plucked 
the  clusters  down  between  rows  of  trellises,  awakened 
in  me  some  forgotten  chords  of  the  antique  and  the 
classic  world.  Where  was  the  Lord  of  the  Vintage, 
Bacchus,  crowned  with  his  own  spoils,  the  ivy-leaf  on 
his  brow  and  a  fawn-skin  about  him  ?  I  saw  the  girls 
stop  in  their  pretty  task  to  dance  like  young  kids ;  the 
children  leaped  and  chased  one  another,  and  crunched 
the  grapes,  and  were  driven  out  with  shouts  of  glee,  to 
come  back  roguishly  peeping  round  corners,  and  snatch 
up  a  fallen  branch,  and  be  hunted  into  the  olive- 
gardens,  where  they  clung  about  the  trees  in  a  sort  of 
playful  comradeship.  The  Bacchantes  were  yet  on  the 
hills  and  down  in  the  glade,  joyous  and  youthful  as  the 
vines  which  they  were  stripping.  But  I  saw  no 
Bacchus;  and  near  at  hand,  preaching  on  their  eternal 
text,  the  hateful  cypresses  towered — black,  tapering 
flames,  steadfast  and  windless,  torches  in  the  grasp  of 
death. 

"  The  poor  youth  did  not  speak  after  he  was  taken 
to  Candia's,"  said  Don  Antonio.  "  God  forgive  his 
murderer!  Bad  enough  to  be  cut  down  at  eight-and- 
twenty !  but  to  deprive  him  of  speech  so  suddenly  that 
he  could  not  make  his  confession !  Ah,  world,  world ! 
A  bad  world,  Signer  caro !  " 

"  Yet  you  buried  him  with  a  grand  Christian  service, 
Don  Antonio.  Was  he  not  a  reprobate  and  a  cut- 
throat?— food  for  the  galleys,  I  have  heard." 

"  Who  knows  but  he  repented,  though  his  tongue 
would  not  tell  me  so?  I  think  he  understood  me. 
When  I  took  his  hand  he  pressed  mine  with  a  hard 
grip ;  his  eyes  lighted  as  soon  as  I  whispered  my  name. 
When  I  said  the  act  of  contrition  in  his  ear  I  am  sure 


CHAP.  VIL]  REQUIEM  ^ETERNAM  91 

he  went  along  with  me.  At  all  events,  I  gave  him 
absolution,"  said  the  mild  priest,  with  a  pleading  look 
in  his  eyes,  almost  as  if  he  deprecated  my  harsh 
judgment  on  a  step  so  hazardous. 

"  Renzaccio  got  his  pardon  cheap,"  I  exclaimed,  as 
we  reached  the  end  of  the  terrace,  where  the  cemetery 
gates  yawned  upon  rusty  hinges  and  half-rotten 
timbers.  An  enormous  crucifix  had  been  set  up  out- 
side it,  gaunt  and  haggard,  with  the  storm-beaten 
Christ  nailed  to  its  rude  beams,  and  the  ladder,  sponge, 
and  spear  of  Longinus  completing  the  story.  Don 
Antonio  lifted  his  three-cornered  hat. 

"A  cheap  pardon,  did  you  say,  caro  Signer?  I  do 
not  think  so.  Look  there!  It  was  this  one — questo 
qui — that  paid  for  it.  Ah,  Gesu  mio,  how  many  ages 
hast  Thou  hung  upon  the  Cross,  and  men  pass  by  and 
regard  not!" 

I  felt  abashed ;  the  argument  which  was  on  my  lips 
died  away.  A  third,  whom  I  was  not  minding,  had 
come  into  our  discussion,  and  I  could  not  answer  Him. 
But  still,  "Do  you  make  no  difference  between  the  just 
and  the  unjust,  Signor  paroco?"  I  asked,  when  we 
turned  away  from  the  divine  yet  all  too  human  symbol. 
"This  Renzo  is  said  to  have  killed  his  fellow- creature 
— "  and  there  my  tongue  faltered.  I  stole  an  uneasy 
glance  at  the  hand  that  hung  down  by  my  side — my 
own  hand,  the  blood  upon  which,  invisible  to  others, 
was  visible  day  and  night  to  me. 

"  Who  am  I  to  judge  men?  "  answered  Don  Antonio. 
"I  am  a  priest;  my  judgment  is  mercy.  If  Renzo 
knew  me,  and  in  that  pressure  of  the  hand  truly 
repented,  though  his  sins  were  as  scarlet,  He  that 
looks  down  upon  us  there  would  make  them  whiter 
than  snow.  Credis  hoc?  Dost  thou  believe  this?" 
He  ended  with  a  smile  of  infinite  tenderness,  trembling 
a  little,  so  earnest  was  he  to  convince  me. 


92  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

"  That  is  a  strange  application  of  the  Sorelli  motto," 
I  answered,  lost  in  my  own  thoughts.  "  A  world-wide 
application !  Sangue  lava  sangue !  And  so,  padre 
mio,  had  I  committed  murder — were  I  a  brigand,  as 
they  say  Renzo  was,  and  many  corpses  lay  on  my 
threshold — I  should  have  but  to  throw  myself  at  your 
feet,  confess,  and  be  forgiven?  " 

In  fancy  I  was  doing  what  my  language  figured. 
The  old  man  remarked  an  emotion  beyond  his  inter- 
preting in  my  voice. 

"  Surely,  if  you  repented,  there  would  be  pardon. 
I  say  He  paid  the  price — a  great  ransom." 

"And  human  justice — the  law — the  magistrate?" 

"  The  law  does  not  concern  me ;  I  sit  at  the  mercy- 
seat  in  Christ's  name,  and  the  guilty  and  the  broken- 
hearted come  to  me.  I  hold  the  keys,  not  the  sword." 

"  Yes,  Don  Antonio,"  exclaimed  a  ringing  voice 
behind  us,  "  but  the  law  should  concern  you.  I  am 
Dr.  Mirtillo,"  said  the  newcomer  to  me,  lifting  his  hat. 
"  I  observed  you  at  the  funeral  yesterday.  On  this 
subject  I  quarrel  with  our  gentle  paroco.  He  is  all  for 
mercy.  I  am  of  opinion  that  a  little  hanging  or  head- 
ing, in  the  style  of  Sisto  Quinto,  is  wanted  up  here." 

The  doctor  laughed  rather  loudly,  as  if  he  had 
confidence  in  my  agreeing  with  him.  He  was  a  dark- 
featured  man  of  good  height,  rapid  and  energetic  in  his 
movements,  and  showed  a  singular  alertness  of  ex- 
pression. 

"  That  is  my  man — Sisto  Quinto,"  he  continued,  "  no 
nonsense  about  him  ;  none  of  your  enlightenment,  your 
jury-system,  your  indulgence  for  thieves,  bandits,  and 
assassins!  You  won't  call  me  a  Liberal,  Don  An- 
tonio, now,  will  you?  Per  Giove,  were  that  splendid 
old  Capuchin  alive,  how  he  would  make  fun  of  our 
abolition  of  the  penalty  of  death!  See  what  it  does 
for  us!  Renzo  Fava  kills  as  many  as  he  can  stab  in 


CHAP.  VII.]  REQUIEM  ^ETERNAM  93 

the  back;  and  somebody  else,  unknown,  kills  him. 
Why  didn't  you  hang  him  as  soon  as  he  was  caught,  I 
say?  Then  three  or  four  others  would  be  still  eating 
their  polenta,  and  be  no  worse  off  than  he  is  this  blessed 
afternoon." 

The  priest  had  moved  away,  and  was  standing  by  the 
crucifix  in  prayer. 

"Tell  me  about  Renzo,"  I  said  to  Dr.  Mirtillo. 
"Why  do  you  speak  of  him  as  a  murderer?" 

"Perche?  Ah,  why,  indeed!"  with  a  laugh  which 
was  almost  a  sneer  at  my  innocence.  "  Come  a  little 
to  the  left,  Signer — a  little  more  still,  so ;  you  remark 
that  agreeable  paese — that  big  village  near  the  summit 
of  yonder  hill  ?  Delightful  scenery,  soft  climate, 
sheltered  from  the  sea,  with  this  vale  of  Paradise  at  our 
feet.  Eh  bene,  the  village  is  Cartena.  And  Cartena 
is  a  nest  of  robbers,  highwaymen,  cutthroats  at  com- 
mand, men-thieves  and  women-thieves — the  devil's 
own  seat  from  five  centuries  ago.  In  Italy  we  murder 
at  a  rate  which  appals  your  English  sang-froid.  But 
Cartena  appals  even  us.  For  every  ten  men  we  kill 
elsewhere,  this  astonishing  Cartena  kills  fifty-seven. 
For  every  thirty-four  we  strike  with  a  knife — our 
favorite  weapon — Cartena  strikes  two  hundred  and 
five.  For  every  three  highway  robberies,  Cartena  will 
supply  you  with  one  hundred  and  thirteen.  Is  it 
enough  ?  I  could  go  far,  on  so  smooth  a  road ; 
however,  now  you  will  grant  that  Renzaccio,  as  a 
genuine  son  of  Cartena,  could  do  no  less  than  rob  and 
murder." 

"The  village,  I  take  it,  is  poor;  they  must  rob  in 
order  to  eat." 

"  Poor,  yes,  but  not  so  poor.  Roccaforte  eats  less 
and  has  less.  The  Cartenesi  are  little  landholders; 
every  man  rents  or  owns  a  bit  of  vineyard,  olive-yard, 
or  what  not ;  he  will  have  his  herd  of  goats,  his  donkey, 


94  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BooK  I. 

his  coins  buried  or  hidden.  It  is  not  poverty,  Signer, 
it  is  breed.  Cartena  sows  and  reaps  its  brigands  as 
Tuscany  grows  Chianti,  by  natural  process.  Renzo 
had  a  mother  from  this  paese — old  Candia's  sister,  of 
whom  he  that  speaks  nothing  says  most  in  her  praise. 
But  his  father  came  of  a  truly  accursed  stock.  For 
generations  they  have  played  the  same  game ;  all 
thieves,  and  out  with  their  knives  to  finish  la  povera 
gente.  Good  blood  does  n't  lie,  you  know." 

"  You  say  Renzo  was  condemned  to  prison.  What 
for?" 

"What  but  an  assassination?  However,  don't  sup- 
pose the  jury  of  brothers  and  cousins  would  bring  in 
their  dear  kinsman  guilty.  At  Cartena  convictions 
never  take  place.  There  is  no  evidence.  How  should 
there  be?  If  I  were  fool  enough  to  appear  before  the 
tribunal  over  there  against  one  of  the  citizens,  to- 
morrow or  the  day  after  you  would  stumble  on  my 
corpse  with  a  rope  round  its  neck.  Affectionate  atten- 
tion! No,  Renzaccio — he  well  deserved  the  name!  — 
was  tried  in  Rome,  found  guilty — though  not  even 
there  of  murder,  only  of  stabbing,  so  please  you — and 
sent  to  the  Isola  del  Giglio  in  the  Tuscan  Sea,  where 
he  committed  another  murder  and  escaped — as  scores 
of  them  do — some  months  ago.  We  have  n't  seen  him 
in  this  country  of  late.  I  suppose  he  was  in  hiding. 
Now  he  lies  there.  And  I  say,  look  what  comes  of 
abolishing  Nature's  penalty  against  murder.  The  law 
abdicates;  then  some  unholy  wretch  steps  into  execute 
judgment,  when  the  public  authorities  fold  their  arms." 

"Well,  how  would  you  proceed  to  reform  Cartena? 
By  education?  By  religion?" 

"  Pope  Paul  IV — a  stern  old  man — gave  free  leave 
and  license  in  1557  to  every  one  who  would  to  kill  the 
inhabitants  of  that  '  nest  of  sad  thieves,'  as  he  called  it, 
and  to  pull  the  castle  down.  I  am  not  Paul  IV.  My 


CHAP.  VII.]  REQUIEM  ^TERNAM  95 

plan,  however,  is  thorough.  I  would  take  the  inhabi- 
tants from  their  high  dwelling,  divide  them  into  fami- 
lies, emigrate  the  less  criminal  to  South  America,  put 
the  rest  to  forced  labor  in  unhealthy  regions,  and  if  any 
man  dealt  in  murder  I  would  strike  off  his  head  after  a 
trial  which  was  not  by  jury.  Till  Cartena  is  forcibly 
evacuated,  the  tribe  of  Renzo  will  not  cease." 

"Then  you  think  he  deserved  his  fate?" 

"  Decidedly ;  but  not  at  the  hands  of  another  brig- 
and. The  law  should  bear  the  sword;  whereas,  in 
this  thrice  unfortunate  country,  bad  government  has 
combined  with  sentiment,  and  superstition  with  cowar- 
dice, to  let  the  guilty  escape.  We  condone  murder 
when  we  treat  the  assassin  indulgently.  I  am  sick  of 
an  enlightenment  which  leaves  Cartena  standing." 

I  had  one  more  question.  "  Will  the  police  make  an 
investigation  into  the  circumstances  of  Renzo  Fava's 
death?  He  was  buried,  I  thought,  rather  hastily." 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  They  may. 
I  gave  my  certificate  on  which  they  can  act  if  they 
please.  No  one  knows — that  is  to  say,  not  a  living 
soul  will  tell — who  brought  Renzo  here,  and  how  he 
came  to  be  stabbed.  He  was  struck  first  with  some 
obtuse  weapon,  I  believe.  An  escaped  convict  dies;  it 
is  a  good  riddance.  What  have  the  police  to  say  in 
it  ?  But  Cartena  will  remember ;  and,  if  possible,  will 
revenge." 


CHAPTER   VIII 

IN    A    GLASS    DARKLY 

A  PICTURE  of  the  castle  taken  by  storm,  captured 
and  feasted  in,  by  a  joyous  company  of  young 
men  from  il  Regno — the  late  Kingdom  of  Naples — 
from  Roman  palaces  and  villas  on  the  slopes  of  Frascati 
and  Albano.  To  this,  which  was  an  interior  equal  in 
brilliancy  and  magic  movement  to  the  finest  painted 
ceilings  at  Venice,  add  an  outdoor  piece,  if  possible  yet 
more  akin  to  Veronese — I  mean  a  hunting-scene  down 
in  the  marshes,  not  far  from  where  hill  and  plain  meet 
in  a  tangle  of  thickets,  and  where  you  shall  see  the  fox 
chased  with  dog,  horse,  and  man.  What  share  did  I 
take  in  these  entertainments?  Listen! 

I  was  in  buoyant  spirits  again.  That  dialogue,  in 
which  doctor  and  priest  came  to  my  relief,  did  almost 
persuade  me  that  I  had  ridded  the  world  of  a  nuisance, 
and  even  sent  a  soul  to  purgatory  —  and  what  better 
could  the  villain  expect? — when  I,  in  short,  you  un- 
derstand! Anyhow,  the  thing  was  done.  "  Cosa  fatta 
capo  ha,"  said  the  wicked  Florentine,  not  Machiavel, 
but  Mosca,  whom  the  poet  saw  low  down  in  the  ninth 
circle.  Should  I  now  go  back  to  Rome,  follow  up 
Tiberio,  satisfy  my  curiosity  in  regard  to  his  dealings 
with  the  dead  convict?  Yes,  when  I  had  observed 
Gaetano  in  council  among  his  Guelfs.  Nowhere  else, 
he  assured  me,  could  I  study  the  rising  shoots  of  these 

96 


CHAP.  VIII.]  IN  A  GLASS  DARKLY  97 

great  old  families  more  at  my  leisure.  The  gloomy 
episode  of  Renzaccio's  death  seemed  quite  to  have 
passed  from  his  mind.  Don  Orazio  seconded  this  wel- 
come invitation ;  and  though  Costanza,  naturally,  said 
never  a  word,  yet  I  was  vain  enough  to  hope  that  a 
longer  stay  might  win  me  a  little  of  her  confidence. 
On  what  grounds?  Well,  once  in  an  evening,  when  I 
talked  eagerly — you  know  my  way — of  the  new  life 
and  its  conditions,  how  much  might  be  done  by  pure 
human  kindness,  she  would  fix  her  bright  eyes  on  me, 
and  sometimes  put  a  question  to  her  brother.  Nay, 
thought  Arden,  she  shall  question  me  by  and  by 
what  men  and  women  were  doing  to  live  that  life  in 
England. 

The  "  princes  orgulous  " — never  did  epithet  clip  men 
more  closely — had  filled  the  stables  of  Roccaforte  with 
their  horses  and  dogs,  the  rooms  with  their  attendants, 
and  the  whole  castle,  from  courtyard  to  battlements, 
with  shouting,  singing,  thrumming  on  the  mandolin, 
acting  one  half  the  day  and  talking  loud  politics  the 
rest  of  it.  Italians  have  no  nerves;  Neapolitans  are 
the  noisiest  people  in  Europe;  and  I  never  could  see 
much  difference  between  the  manners  of  the  nobles  and 
those  of  their  servants,  when  excitement  got  the  upper 
hand.  But  a  Neapolitan  is  nothing  if  not  excited.  He 
lives  in  a  universe  of  gestures,  screams,  runnings,  tu- 
mults, and  theatrical  bustle.  In  all  which  exasperating 
accomplishments  find  me  a  rival  to  Sismondo,  Marchese 
di  Lucera. 

It  was  at  the  close  of  a  long  dinner.  The  Great 
Hall  sparkled  with  lights,  old  silver,  mirrors  worthy  of 
the  Palace  of  Truth,  a  hundred  tints  of  silks,  brocades, 
velvets — for  ladies  were  among  the  guests — while  bur- 
nished coats  of  mail  were  disposed  as  trophies  in  spots 
where  their  reflections  would  be  multiplied.  We  had 
dispersed  ourselves  hither  and  thither  in  flowing  groups ; 


98  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I 

and  a  musical  storm  of  conversation  rolled  its  waves, 
the  whole  world  in  motion.  Every  one  was  talking 
his  best,  or  repeating  in  dumb  show  the  sentences  ad- 
dressed to  him;  with  eyes  alone  you  could  have  made 
out  the  argument  of  this  amazing  comedy. 

In  an  embrasure  between  two  windows,  I  stood  and 
watched  it.  Pure  and  splendid  Veronese,  I  repeat. 

"  How  intense  a  life  is  running  over  at  these  eyes 
and  lips!"  I  remarked  to  Herr  Hagedorn,  who,  like 
myself,  had  taken  refuge  from  the  flood  among  statues 
and  trophies. 

"  It  is  the  old  Greek  pantomime,"  he  said,  "  of 
which  we  possess  a  marble  replica,  not  quite  perfect, 
in  our  museums.  If  the  figures  came  to  life  that  is 
how  they  would  act.  We  have  nothing  whatever  like 
it  among  Germans ;  neither  have  you  English.  In  one 
word,  it  is  la  plastique!" 

"  Does  it  amuse  you,  as  it  amuses  me  ?  It  is  as  good 
as  a  play." 

"Far  better;  these  Southerners  live  the  play;  they 
are  never  more  serious  and  seldom  more  excited.  A 
lighted  match  would  explode  them." 

Hagedorn  had  been  told,  very  slightly,  of  my  ad- 
venture; and  the  plundering  of  his  portmanteau  made 
us  friends.  Like  your  interesting  correspondent,  Laura, 
he  was  tall  and  thin ;  but  his  gray  hairs  denoted  wis- 
dom, and  his  gold-rimmed  spectacles  the  spirit  of  ob- 
servation. He  had  read  libraries,  explored  continents, 
eaten  of  every  cuisine  from  Teheran  to  Trouville,  and 
made  an  unmatchable  collection  of  antiques;  but  he 
had  refrained  from  marrying,  and  now  sat  in  the  best 
box  at  the  opera,  enjoying  other  men's  follies  while 
they  sang  bass  or  tenor,  and  were  deluded  by  the 
reigning  diva.  His  own  diva,  he  used  to  say  a  little 
grimly,  was  the  tenth  Muse.  He  called  her  Locusta. 
Why  that  name?  I  will  explain  it,  if  I  dare,  when  we 


CHAP.  VIII.]  IN  A  GLASS  DARKLY  99 

have  done  with  the  Marchese  Sismondo,  who  now  came 
toward  us  with  a  lofty  stride  and  arms  extended. 

"  Ha,  ha,  my  philosopher,  you  are  nourishing  the 
spleen  with  Ser  Inglese,"  he  cried  in  his  stage  voice. 
"  But  let  me  embrace  you  for  the  charming  sketch  of 
Naples  you  have  given  in  '  La  Revue  Bleue.'  Not 
more  than  Naples  should  claim  ;  cospetto,  less — a  thou- 
sand times  less!  However,  beautiful  and  true.  No, 
you  will  not  be  embraced?  Ah,  men  of  the  North,  you 
are  ice  without  sugar;  you  have  no  more  sentiment 
than  a  chilly  snake!" 

I  fixed  my  gaze  on  the  large,  curly-haired,  yellow- 
skinned  young  man  whom  Hagedorn  had  waved  off 
with  a  smile.  He  wore  a  profusion  of  rings,  and  a 
double  gold  chain  over  his  waistcoat,  with  a  bundle  of 
charms  in  coral  and  ivory  attached  to  it.  My  intention 
was  harmless,  my  look  not  more  serious  than  usual. 
But,  instantly,  as  his  black  orbs  met  mine,  I  detected 
the  downward  motion  of  the  hand,  fingers  thrust  out, 
and,  lo!  the  horns  which  Nonna  Candia  had  directed 
against  me.  The  jettatura  once  more!  A  mad  fit  of 
laughter  seized  me,  which  I  endeavored  to  control  by 
turning  away  to  the  window.  When  I  turned  again 
the  Marchese  was  smiling  all  over  his  too  plastic  fea- 
tures. Be  you  assured,  Laura,  my  sudden  madness 
appeared  to  him  the  doing  of  his  horns.  So,  he  would 
have  argued,  does  a  witch  turn  and  rend  herself  in- 
wardly when  she  is  running  in  the  form  of  a  hare  and 
the  dogs  are  upon  her. 

But  I  knew  a  way  to  daunt  my  Neapolitan.  Look- 
ing him  straight  in  the  eyes,  and  then  directing  my 
malocchio  down  toward  his  watch-chain,  I  said,  as  if 
considering,  "  Marchese,  you  wear  some  pretty  amulets, 
I  see — quite  a  number,  too — the  horn,  of  course,  the 
horseshoe,  the  crescent-moon,  and  the  open  hand, 
mano  pantea.  You  are  well  provided  against  the — " 


loo  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

"Hush,  hush!  my  good  Englishman,"  broke  in 
Hagedorn,  who  had  remarked  the  uneasy  flush  mount- 
ing on  Lucera's  sallow  cheeks.  "  Our  friend  here,"  he 
continued,  turning  to  the  Marchese,  "  does  not  know 
that  some  things  are  never  talked  of  in  Italy,  though 
every  one  has  them  in  mind.  Pardon  him." 

"  Oh,  no,"  I  said  lightly,  "  there  is  no  need  of  par- 
don. I  wished  merely  to  observe  that  of  all  the  charms 
against — you  know  what — Excellenza  does  not  appear 
to  carry  about  with  him  the  mightiest." 

"Which  is  that,  pray?"  asked  Lucera  with  a  sneer, 
but  disquieted. 

"You  don't  know?  Astonishing!  Why,  the  cima- 
ruta — the  sprig  of  rue — to  be  sure." 

"La  cimaruta!"  exclaimed  he,  triumphantly,  "but 
behold  it;  I  carry  it  always  in  my  waistcoat  pocket." 

He  drew  forth  and  held  up  to  view  the  potent  sign, 
on  which,  nothing  abashed,  I  concentrated  my  malig- 
nant gaze.  A  curious  little  thing  it  was.  Figure  to 
yourself,  my  dear  Laura — and,  by  the  way,  bear  with 
me  if  I  fall  more  and  more  into  the  Italian  idiom,  hear- 
ing it  and  talking  it  every  moment,  nay,  dreaming  in  it 
too — figure  to  yourself,  I  repeat,  a  tiny  silver  spray, 
like  the  end  of  a  stalactite,  four  branches  on  one  side  of 
the  stem,  five  on  the  other,  and  each  of  these  little 
sprigs  terminating  in  some  grotesque  object — a  key,  or 
a  half-moon,  or  the  hand  "  making  the  fig,"  of  which 
last  you  remember  our  reading  in  Dante.  Such  is  the 
cimaruta — powerful  as  holy  rue  itself,  when  alive  and 
green,  to  blunt  the  spells  of  wizards,  necromancers, 
secret  enemies,  and  all  the  wiles  of  Satan  whenever  he 
attempts  his  unholy  working  through  human  agents 
who  have  made  over  to  him  their  souls.  The  thing,  as 
I  kept  looking  on  it,  seemed  to  me  peculiar  and  un- 
pleasant. I  should  have  thought  the  devil  was  in  this 
silver  monstrosity  with  its  pointing  hands,  rather  than 


CHAP.  VIII.]  IN  A  GLASS  DARKLY  lot 

likely  to  be  subdued  by  its  influence.  It  had  an  ex- 
pression at  once  fiendish  and  artificial — a  kind  of  mur- 
derous blindness.  I  don't  know  how  to  convey  the 
sense  of  horror  which  it  inspired  except  by  this  unintel- 
ligible phrase.  But  have  you  never,  in  walking  through 
a  large  house  alone,  or,  it  may  be,  in  rummaging  out 
old  and  forgotten  curiosities,  felt  that  there  was  some- 
thing— not  some  one — a  presence,  yet  not  exactly  a 
mind  or  a  person — close  to  you,  that  meant  and  would 
inflict  mischief?  Had  Lucera  offered  me  that  piece  of 
silver  rue,  what  do  you  suppose  I  should  have  done 
with  it?  At  the  earliest  opportunity  I  would  have 
crunched  it  under  the  heel  of  my  boot.  Ah,  not  he, 
indeed!  He  showed  it  me  gaily,  turned  it  hither  and 
thither  in  the  light,  caressed  its  horrid  finger-tips,  and 
said  with  an  ironical  smile,  "  If  the  cimaruta  were  only 
alive!  These  nine  branches  would  soon  finish  off  a 
necromancer!" 

"  And  you  wear  them  against  il  fascino?  "  I  inquired, 
in  a  voice  as  stern  as  I  could  make  it.  The  word  struck 
him  full  in  the  breast ;  it  was  a  thunder-clap. 

"  Eh,  il  —  What  did  you  say  ?  "  he  ejaculated ;  and 
before  I  could  answer  he  was  half  across  the  room.  I 
felt,  and  I  suppose  my  looks  betrayed  me,  that  I  had 
routed  the  Marchese  di  Lucera,  horse  and  foot.  The 
German  philosopher  at  my  side  was  not  of  the  same 
opinion.  He  seemed  hesitating  whether  to  speak. 

"  You,  too,  Signor  Albaspina,  put  faith  in  il  fascino?  " 
I  said,  lowering  my  voice.  "  Why  do  you  bend  your 
brows  on  me  with  so  tragic  an  air  ?  Is  la  jettatura  one 
of  the  things  dreamed  of  in  your  philosophy?" 

"  How  very  wild — how  strangely  incautious — you 
English  are  when  you  come  abroad,"  was  his  reply. 
"  You  have  thrown  Lucera  into  a  deadly  fright. 
Should  the  least  accident  befall  him — his  horse  cast  a 
shoe,  or  himself  be  taken  with  a  bleeding  at  the  nose — 


ib2  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

he  will  swear  you  did  it  with  your  bold  blasphemies. 
After  which,  if  he  invites  you  to  hunt  or  shoot  in  the 
forest  round  his  ancestral  crags,  I  advise  you  to 
decline.  A  Calabrian  peasant,  knowing  you  were  a 
jettatore,  would  put  a  bullet  into  you  at  the  first 
chance." 

"  But  am  I  the — the  dreadful  thing  you  say?  Look 
into  my  eyes,  Herr  Philosopher.  Do  you  perceive  this 
diabolic  effluence  there?" 

Hagedorn's  face  was  a  study.  "  They  say  in  the 
village — at  least  old  Candia  says — your  eyes  are  dan- 
gerous. My  dear  young  man,  don't  play  with  fire. 
Candia  herself  is  a  strega  of  the  purest  descent — her 
mother  and  grandmother  plied  the  trade — and  she,  as 
they  say  in  the  fish-market  at  Naples,  is  a  Jannara, 
one  of  Hecate's  own  company.  I  wish,  by  the  by, 
she  could  be  coaxed  into  selling  me  her  coral  necklace, 
with  the  medals  of  Diana  Trigemina,  which  by  some 
extraordinary  luck  she  has  been  able  to  string  upon  it. 
No,  Signer,  do  not  laugh  at  the  malocchio.  Remember 
among  what  people  you  have  fallen.  Lucera  is  as  full 
of  superstition  as  an  egg  is  of  meat.  Cross  him  with 
your  pretended  fascination,  and  he  will  certainly  aim 
at  your  life." 

"  He  appears  to  be  making  love  now,  not  war,"  I 
answered,  indicating  an  absurd  little  scene  which  was 
enacted,  chiefly  on  his  part,  but  for  the  benefit  of 
Donna  Costanza,  not  many  yards  away. 

The  girl  was  seated  in  a  tall,  high-backed  chair, 
beneath  an  immense  battle-piece  that  stretched  along 
the  wall.  A  Roman  lady,  the  Contessa  Vespignani, 
leaned  over,  whispering  earnestly  in  her  ear,  and  both 
seemed  busy  with  their  conversation.  But  Lucera, 
putting  on  the  air  of  unconcerned  buffoonery,  which  is 
the  most  characteristic  of  Italian  traits,  moved  lightly 
round  them,  serenading  in  dumb  show,  with  his  fingers 


CHAP.  VIII.]  IN   A  GLASS  DARKLY  103 

on  a  fictitious  mandolin,  and  a  spirit  in  his  heels  of 
repressed  dancing,  most  comical  to  behold. 

Donna  Costanza  went  on  talking  to  her  friend ;  but 
it  was  impossible  to  keep  serious,  and,  I  thought,  a 
little  more  of  the  fun  would  have  drawn  her  into 
answering  it  as  gaily  as  it  was  thrown  up  at  her 
imaginary  windows. 

"  These  fellows  can  do  nothing  but  act,"  I  said  to 
Hagedorn,  with  a  spice  of  pettishness.  "  Do  just  look 
at  that  Figaro!  Yes,  it  is  graceful,  I  don't  deny,  but 
surely  effeminate !  Donna  Costanza  is  the  better  man 
of  the  two,  with  her  square  Roman  forehead  and 
decided  chin." 

"  It  is  always  so  in  times  of  decadence,"  replied  the 
German.  "  In  this  country  women  have  character  and 
men  have  beauty.  Not  that  Costanza  is  not  beautiful. 
But  she  has  the  face  of  an  innocent  boy,  frank  and 
unconscious." 

"  I  understand  she  is  to  marry  Lucera.  What  do 
you  think?" 

"  Her  father  wishes  it.  In  nine  cases  out  of  ten  that 
would  be  equivalent  to  saying  it  was  done.  But 
Costanza  may  prove  the  tenth  case.  Bravissima,  my 
dear  girl!  You  see  she  has  had  enough  of  the  cavaliere 
servente  and  his  guitar.  She  puts  him  aside  with  a 
touch  of  her  tongue ;  it  can  be  sharp,  I  tell  you.  Ah, 
but  how  cleverly  the  serenader  thrusts  his  instrument, 
which  is  pure  imagination,  under  a  cloak  that  never 
existed,  and  glides  away,  heartbroken!  Could  the 
false  Sir  Proteus  have  done  his  serenading  more 
admirably  beneath  Sylvia's  window  that  night — that 
night?  Why  don't  you  speak,  Signor  Ardente?" 
For  I  had  lost  myself  in  certain  idle  thoughts. 

"She  is  going,  Ser  Albaspina!  As  early  as  this? 
Why  should  she  go?" 

I  did  not  care  a  spangle  on  Harlequin's  jacket  for 


104  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

Lucera,  Sir  Proteus,  or  any  serenader  that  ever  caught 
a  chill  on  dark  nights  thrum-thrumming  before  a  lattice, 
and  therefore  I  had  answered  in  these  words  which 
were  so  little  to  the  purpose. 

"Why  should  she  not?"  he  replied.  "Can  you 
fancy  she  takes  a  pleasure  in  this  Fierucola — this 
Vanity  Fair — with  its  chatter  and  jingle?  I  know 
what  she  has  in  mind.  Shall  we  follow?  Say  the 
word,  and  we  slip  out  quietly." 

I  said  nothing,  but  made  for  the  door.  "Not  that 
way,"  whispered  the  German,  leading  me  up  the  hall 
to  a  side  issue  that  opened  on  a  winding  staircase. 
"  Come  with  me,  and  keep  a  still  tongue  in  your  head." 

We  passed  through,  and  began  to  twist  and  turn  in 
the  dark,  he  going  before,  as  familiar  with  the  place, 
while  I  stumbled  after,  once  or  twice  giving  my  head 
a  smart  rap  against  the  projecting  masonry.  At 
length  when  we  had  got,  so  far  as  I  could  conjecture, 
nearly  as  high  as  the  battlements,  Hagedorn  unfastened 
a  door,  through  which  a  feeble  light  broke  upon  us. 
He  motioned  me  to  come  forward.  I  did  so,  and  found 
myself  in  the  chapel  where  I  had  seen  Costanza  for  the 
first  time. 

A  couple  of  lamps  burning,  one  on  each  side  of  the 
altar,  accounted  for  the  purple  glow  that  softened  the 
shadows.  Ghostly  faces,  limbs,  or  vestments  shot  into 
sight  unexpectedly  from  the  paintings  around,  flickered, 
and  went  out  again,  aimlessly,  as  in  a  world  where  no 
man  came.  The  high  roof  was  darkness ;  and  we,  a 
little  nervous,  dreading  lest  we  should  start  some 
timbers  creaking,  moved  on  until  we  stood  secure  in 
the  gloom,  away  from  the  betraying  lamps.  I  was  on 
the  point  of  saying,  "  But  we  are  alone,"  when  a  door 
opened  at  the  farther  end,  letting  in  Donna  Costanza, 
as  I  knew  by  her  brilliant  white  dress  of  satin. 


CHAP.  VIII.]  IN  A  GLASS  DARKLY  105 

She  did  not  see  us;  I  doubt  if  she  would  have  seen 
us,  though  we  stood  close  to  her.  The  girl  came  up  to 
the  verge  of  the  holy  place,  and  there  kneeling,  with 
her  eyes  directed  to  the  altar,  she  stretched  out  her 
arms  in  the  form  of  a  cross,  and  remained  motionless. 
We  did  not  dare  to  breathe.  Minutes  passed ;  the 
silence  was  unbroken,  the  kneeling  figure  in  its  dazzling 
raiment  did  not  stir.  A  great  calm — as  when  the 
sword-like  tramontana  drives  every  cloud  from  heaven, 
and  leaves  only  the  blue  without  fleck  or  stain — seemed 
to  fall  even  upon  us,  the  spectators ;  we  felt  that  a  soul 
was  laying  itself  bare  to  some  uncomprehended  in- 
fluence. From  my  place  in  the  dusk  I  watched,  know- 
ing, or  at  least  suspecting,  that  a  marvel  would  be 
wrought,  such  as  I  had  witnessed  one  other  time.  And 
it  was  so.  The  light  was  breaking  out  from  within; 
the  eyes  kindled,  the  forehead  seemed  to  grow  whiter, 
the  golden  hair  gleamed.  But  still,  no  motion  in  the 
hands  stretched  upon  an  unseen  crucifix,  no  voice,  not 
even  the  breathing,  convulsed  or  caught  up,  which  I 
thought  must  be  the  accompaniment  of  a  rapture  so 
intense.  How  long  would  it  last? 

Long,  long,  as  we  measured  the  moments,  vibrating 
to  the  strange  experience  of  another  soul,  responding 
in  ourselves  to  unknown  chords.  Then  the  figure  was 
bowed  even  to  the  ground ;  Costanza  lay  prostrate 
before  the  altar,  not  as  fainting,  but  in  some  unspeak- 
able mood  of  dedication,  while  the  trembling  light 
hovered  upon  the  fair  hair  and  the  blanched,  angelic 
raiment.  Above  was  darkness  in  the  high  roof,  and 
round  about  only  this  quivering  ruby  glow  which,  quite 
unconscious,  did  its  own  service  in  presence  of  the 
sacrament,  whosoever  went  or  came. 

Costanza  stood  up  at  last,  her  flush  deepening,  and 
drawing  back  a  few  steps  with  joined  hands,  she  lifted 
her  eyes  toward  the  altar  once  more,  and  then  her  voice 


io6  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

broke  into  song.  Utterly  amazed,  I  strained  my  hear- 
ing to  lay  hold  of  the  words.  It  was  a  Latin  hymn, 
fragments  of  which  I  remembered  in  the  Holy-Week 
service  at  St.  John  Lateran,  but  now  chanted  so  dis- 
tinctly, with  such  a  passionate  fervor  in  each  syllable, 
that  soon  I  could  follow  as  on  an  open  page.  I  knew 
it  to  be  the  moving,  quaint  "  Pange  Lingua "  of  the 
Passion,  which  I  'had  once  heard,  sung  by  alternate 
choirs  on  Good  Friday,  while  an  immense  throng  went 
up  the  Basilica  and  knelt  in  adoration  of  the  Cross, 
kissing  the  wounds  of  Christ  with  sobbing,  which  the 
singers  took  up  and  made  glorious.  Costanza,  under 
cloud  of  night,  whispering  these  cadences,  sucking 
sweetness  out  of  this  honeycomb,  brought  that  singular 
and  never-to-be-forgotten  lamentation  back  to  me,  with 
its  thousands  of  mournful  faces.  She  had  an  extreme 
purity  of  tone;  but  the  richness  given  to  it  by  a 
consuming  solitary  spirit,  wasting  in  the  flame  it  had 
kindled — who  shall  paint? 

Over  and  over  again  Costanza  sang  the  strophes  of 
the  hymn — a  line,  a  phrase,  appearing  to  thrill  and 
enchant  her.  "  Dulce  lignum,  dulces  clavos" — sweet 
wood  of  the  Cross,  sweet  nails  that  pierced — these 
words  made  the  refrain  of  her  unearthly  song.  But 
when,  after  all,  she  was  going  out  from  that  mystic 
place,  where  she  deemed  herself  alone,  and  had  come 
to  the  door,  I  watched  as  childlike  and  pretty  a 
farewell  to  it  as  you  ever  saw.  Inserted  in  the  wall 
hard  by  was  a  Pieta — the  dead  Christ  lying  on  His 
mother's  knees — in  white  marble.  It  shone  with  a 
peculiar  glory  amid  the  somber  shades  of  the  chapel. 
When  Costanza  came  to  it,  she  stooped,  and  with  the 
most  confiding  gesture  laid  her  brow  first  on  the 
stretched  out  right  hand,  then  on  the  left,  in  exquisite 
pity  and  as  asking  a  benediction.  But  even  that  was 
not  enough;  standing  reluctant,  and  looking  back,  she 


CHAP.  VIII.]  IN  A  GLASS  DARKLY  107 

passed  her  own  hand  gently  over  the  hands  of  Jesus, 
and  conveyed  it  to  her  lips  with  a  touch  of  infinite 
tenderness.  Nothing  could  be  more  natural,  and,  I 
confess,  it  melted  me. 

Hagedorn,  after  a  while,  motioned  that  we  should  go 
now.  Instead  of  descending  the  way  we  had  come  up, 
he  led  me  by  a  loftier  flight  of  steps,  and  we  emerged 
on  a  broad,  flat  roof  behind  the  castle  parapets.  "  We 
will  delay  here,"  he  said.  "What  think  you  of  this 
starlit  landscape  ?  " 

"  I  am  thinking  of  Donna  Costanza.  Did  you  know? 
— of  course  you  did,  else  we  should  not  be  here  at  this 
moment.  What  an  amazing,  what  a  beautiful  creature! 
Is  she  quite —  ?  She  speaks  with  sense  and  judgment, 
too." 

The  German  moved  round  inside  the  battlements, 
compelling  me  to  follow,  until  we  had  gained  a  position 
from  which,  under  the  restless  pulsing  of  the  stars — 
there  was  no  moon — we  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  sea-line, 
as  it  were  an  edge  of  glittering  steel  among  low  clouds. 
The  shapes  of  mountains  on  either  side  gave  one  an 
impression,  or  rather,  weighed  upon  the  mind,  as  if 
they  were  something  preterhuman,  to  which  one  had 
not  the  key — something  from  another  world,  alien  and 
strange  to  us.  The  winds  were  quiet. 

"  And  so  it  is  not  hysteria?"  I  resumed,  questioning 
myself  as  much  as  Hagedorn.  "Tell  me,"  I  went  on 
abruptly — speaking  in  English,  a  language  that  my 
companion  had  thoroughly  mastered — "  do  you  believe 
that  in  such  states  there  is  any  real  experience?  Are 
they  feeling  and  no  more?" 

"  If  the  sun  were  above  the  horizon,"  returned 
Hagedorn,  "  the  stars  which  you  now  see  would  be  in- 
visible. Under  their  faint  light  you  discern  those 
waters,  afar  off  indeed,  but  surely  it  is  the  Mediterranean. 
When  a  pure  soul  like  Costanza  turns  from  the  light 


io8'  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

of  common  day,  as  your  poet  expresses  himself,  to  the 
stars  and  the  sea  couching  beneath,  it  is  soul,  or  spirit, 
that  answers.  We  are  fools,  we  moderns,  that  prattle 
of  dead  Nature.  There  is  no  death.  I  mean  that  life 
is  around,  above,  on  all  sides.  It  is  there  to  take  of  it 
as  much  as  we  will.  Costanza  plunges  into  the  sea  and 
it  bears  her  up." 

"  At  any  rate,  your  Goethe  would  canonize  her  as 
a  schone  Seele ;  a  St.  Agnes,  some  one  else  would 
say,  the  bride  of  the  Spirit.  Will  she  have  gone  down 
now  to  endure  the  coxcombries  of  the  Marchese 
Sismondo?  " 

"  Not  if  there  is  a  fever-patient  in  Roccaforte.  They 
tell  me  she  saw  the  last  of  that  unspeakable  ruffian, 
Candia's  nephew,  who  was  murdered  in  an  affray  with 
the  police.  Oh,  I  have  often  watched  her  unawares 
up  in  the  chapel.  I  am  an  old  friend  of  the  family, 
you  know.  I  have  heard  her  sing  as  you  did ;  nay, 
when  she  was  a  child  I  have  seen  her  dance,  too,  in  a 
perfect  rapture  of  joy,  before  the  Madonna  delle  Grazie. 
You  must  not  think  her  melancholy.  She  delights  in 
flowers — a  rare  taste  among  Italians,  most  of  whom 
dislike  their  scent ;  and  I  remember  how,  on  a  brilliant 
morning  in  March,  she  has  plucked  a  branch  full  of 
almond-blossom,  and  run  upstairs  with  it  to  the  chapel, 
laying  it  on  the  altar  and  crying,  '  Gesu  mio,  the  spring 
is  here;  see,  I  have- brought  you  the  first  blossoms. 
Are  they  not  sweet,  Gesu  mio!'  Oh  dear  no,  not 
hysteria!  Poetry,  religion — or  better  still,  faith,  by 
which  faculty,  as  I  understand  it,  we  draw  music  from 
otherwise  silent  strings.  I  do  not  believe  Costanza 
ever  did  an  unkind  or  a  foolish  thing  in  her  life.  She 
is  worth  a  thousand  of  Sismondo.  And,  mark  my 
words,  she  will  not  marry  him." 

With  this  comfortable  assurance,  I  was  fain  to  quit 
the  cold  stars,  and  join  the  Neapolitan  Fair  down  be- 


CHAP.  VIII.]  IN  A  GLASS  DARKLY  109 

low.  Costanza  had  left  her  father's  guests  to  their 
noisy  diversions,  which  included  a  sham  tombola  where 
everybody  lost,  and  more  serious  gaming  than  I  had 
ever  seen  in  society.  The  Marchese  won  and  lost  with 
equal  animation.  But,  to  my  secret  joy,  he  lost 
especially  when  I  was  looking  over  his  shoulder.  After 
a  run  of  ill-luck,  I  noticed  that  he  turned  half  round  to 
stare  at  me,  and  then  deliberately  pulled  out  his  sprig 
of  rue  and  laid  it  on  the  green  table. 

"  It  is  time  you  saw  these  curious  ear-rings  of  mine 
from  Clazomenae,"  said  Hagedorn,  taking  me  firmly  by 
the  wrist  and  leading  me  to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 
I  was  in  a  mischievous  humor.  "  Mensch,  Mensch, 
verspotte  nicht  den  Teufel,"  he  exclaimed,  striking  me 
warningly  on  the  breast.  "  Why  will  you  provoke  the 
fellow?  He  has  lost  a  thousand  lire,  and  you  are  the 
cause,  with  your  mocking  eye.  For  Heaven's  sake,  be 
careful.  Have  you  no  enemies,  that  you  can  afford  to 
manufacture  them  ?  " 

"  I  want  him  to  lose  Donna  Costanza,"  was  all  I 
could  bring  myself  to  say.  "  If  the  malocchio  can  do 
that,  I  will  stare  at  him  as  long  as  he  stays  in  Roc- 
caforte." 

My  German  philosopher  put  back  the  case  into  his 
pocket  which  contained  his  precious  ear-rings,  felt  my 
pulse  with  all  a  physician's  gravity,  and  then,  with  a 
countenance  from  which  every  sign  of  playfulness  had 
vanished,  said  in  my  ear,  "  If  you,  my  friend,  have 
fallen  in  love  with  Donna  Costanza,  I  prophesy  two 
things — she  will  not  marry  you  any  more  than  Sis- 
mondo.  But,  unlike  Sismondo,  you  will  never  get  over 
it." 


CHAPTER   IX 

A    HUNTING-PIECE 

WELL,  Laura,  how  do  you  like  my  first  sketch  a  la 
Veronese?  You  make  that  charming  little  face 
I  have  called  up  so  often,  sunshine  on  the  lips  under  a 
severe  and  thoughtful  forehead.  What,  have  I  flung 
Correggio's  golden  brush  at  the  scene  ?  brought  out  but- 
terfly Amoretti,  loves  and  doves,  in  the  embroidery 
thereof  and  thickened  it  with  a  deceptive  haze?  But 
really,  you  know,  Hagedorn  was  a  mere  raven,  croaking 
fatalities.  Had  I  felt  in  such  a  way  toward  Donna 
Costanza,  should  I  now  be  writing  it  to  the  female 
recluses  of  Marinden?  Go  to — I  am  not  so  unac- 
quainted with  human,  and  especially  feminine,  nature. 
I  praise  this  wonderful  young  person  chiefly,  Laura, 
because  she  is  never  going  to  marry — at  all  events,  not 
Sismondo  di  Lucera.  And  so,  and  so,  you  are 
satisfied  ? 

Now  for  my  second  attempt  at  the  unparalleled 
Venetian.  But  always  bear  in  mind  how  absurd  it  is 
to  quarrel  with  Italy,  setting  it  down  as  artificial,  stage- 
struck,  and  a  worn-out  piece  of  the  opera,  just  because 
it  cannot  help  being  like  its  own  pictures.  I  have 
observed  sunsets  off  the  North  Foreland  that  you 
would  have  said  were  a  shameless  plagiarism  of  Turner. 
And  in  the  Pontine  Marshes  we  were  all,  on  a  certain 
clear-faced  morning,  resolved  to  act  our  bit  of  Veronese 

no 


CHAP.  IX.]  A  HUNTING-PIECE  in 

— cavaliers,  dogs,  and,  I  suppose,  the  boar  as  well.  At 
dawn  a  heavy  tempest  of  rain  and  wind  swept  up  with 
the  sun  from  the  Eastern  Apennines,  making  the  sky 
an  enormous  purple  cloak,  slashed  by  and  by  with  a 
thousand  seams  of  varying  color,  hung  on  the  edges 
with  diamonds  which  broke  out  into  rainbows,  as  the 
cloak  traveled  and  its  fringes  waved  before  the  lagging 
Apollo.  It  was  like  a  flight  and  a  battle  at  last,  in 
which  the  god  chased  the  cloud  with  arrows  of  light- 
ning. Then  the  mid-spaces  grew  transparent;  a  wide 
interval,  serene  as  a  crystal  floor,  appeared  in  heaven ; 
and  we  were  hurrying  down  on  horseback,  in  highest 
animation,  to  the  casino  below,  some  three  miles  off, 
where  the  meet  had  been  arranged. 

Over  the  soft  ground  it  was  easy  going.  "  The  scent 
will  lie  thick  to-day,"  said  Gaetano,  who  in  his  dark, 
green  hunting-suit,  and  managing  his  horse  to  perfec- 
tion, looked  what  he  was,  the  lord  of  the  chase.  I  saw 
no  man  the  least  his  equal,  assuredly  not  the  Marchese 
di  Lucera,  for  all  his  decorations  on  sleeve  and  collar, 
which,  among  ourselves,  would  have  been  thought  in 
bad  taste.  But  my  young  hero  of  Roccaforte  was  at 
the  head  of  a  brilliant  gathering.  The  country  around 
sent  its  youth  from  a  dozen  castles;  there  were  ladies 
to  see  us  throw  off,  though  none  would  be  riding  to 
hounds  in  this  rough  exercise.  Even  the  perpetual 
blowing  of  horns,  discordant  close  at  hand,  nor  ever 
meant  to  be  musical  by  the  natives,  who  delight  in 
brayings  of  all  kinds  for  their  own  sweet  sake — added 
life  and  stirred  the  blood  which  was  already  tingling. 
And  the  fox-hounds  bayed,  the  horses  champed  and 
stamped,  the  young  men  exchanged  loud  greetings  as 
they  rode  hither  and  thither  to  ask  who  had  come. 
On  our  left  was  the  shining  water,  unutterably  fresh 
and  matutinal,  as  if  in  bathing  the  stars  it  had  caught 
some  of  their  brightness.  The  woods  above,  on  the 


H2  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BooK  I. 

hillsides,  dashed  now  into  a  million  tints  of  autumn, 
with  long  processions  of  green-headed  pines  circling 
them  in  a  dance  that  had  no  end,  made  a  foil  most 
effective  to  the  emerald-green  lush  and  tufted  grass, 
with  its  clumps  of  brushwood  scattered  in  all  directions, 
that  more  than  half  concealed  the  deep  ravines  and 
treacherous  quaking  mosses,  over  which  our  morning's 
adventure  might  take  us. 

We  did  not  make  a  start  so  soon  as  I  expected. 
The  Duke  of  Sila  was  late,  and  until  he  came  the  hunt 
lingered.  Hagedorn,  bringing  up  his  powerful  though 
rather  heavy  steed  near  mine,  began,  as  his  way  was, 
to  point  out  the  strangers  and  describe  their  habits,  for 
my  benefit.  I  could  not  but  admire  the  good  looks, 
and  the  amiable  manner,  which^  fitted  them  to  take 
their  place  in  the  mental  sketch  I  was  contemplating. 
He  agreed.  "  Nevertheless,"  he  went  on,  "  much  as 
you  are  pleased  with  their  pretty  faces  and  their  pic- 
turesque trappings,  you  should  know  that  their  brains 
are  sawdust;  nay,  if  you  put  them  at  the  head  of  a 
cavalry  charge,  it  is  doubtful  whether  they  would  bear 
down  a  line  of  the  worst  Austrian  infantry  that  ever 
was  drawn  up.  I  don't  call  them  effeminate.  That 
would  be  too  ridiculous,  would  n't  it,  now  as  you  see 
them?  But  they  want  grit." 

"  They  are  full  of  fire — straining  to  get  away,"  I  said. 
"  In  this  temper  they  would  charge  cannon." 

"  If  it  were  three  hundred  yards  off,  yes.  Put  it 
half  a  league  off,  I  doubt." 

"  They  will  be  charging  soon,"  I  returned ;  "  here, 
evidently,  is  the  Duke  of  Sila." 

Up  rode  the  great  man  with  his  company ;  the  dogs 
were  uncoupled ;  the  sport  began.  Our  first  cover  we 
drew  blank.  Then  we  tried  toward  the  mountains, 
edging  away  from  the  sea.  We  went  almost  under 
the  thick  woods,  over  a  very  uneven  ground,  the  dogs 


CHAP.  IX.]  A   HUNTING-PIECE  113 

pressing  on  eagerly,  yet  by  no  means  fast,  puzzled  by 
the  scent  which  lay  thick  before  their  noses.  I  began 
to  doubt  whether,  in  spite  of  the  favorable  sky  and 
wind,  we  should  get  a  good  run.  Our  company  began 
to  halt  and  scatter.  Suddenly  Gaetano  shouted;  an 
immense  clamor  went  up  into  the  sky ;  and  down  came, 
tumbling  over  himself  in  hot  haste,  a  young  cub  out  of 
the  high  woods,  the  dogs  within  a  dozen  yards  of  him, 
and  not  three  minutes'  breath  of  life,  it  seemed,  in  the 
animal.  Away  he  tore  into  the  comparatively  open 
plain,  making  for  the  brush  that  invited  him  as  the 
nearest  refuge;  and  you  may  depend  on  it,  the  hunt 
was  at  his  heels.  Gaetano  passed  me,  shouting,  "  He 
is  a  cub;  the  hounds  will  be  breathed.  They  should 
let  him  go." 

But  not  they,  and  not  we.  The  waiting  had  been 
too  much.  We  wanted  excitement  and  a  sharp  run. 
I  can  tell  you  we  had  both.  As  for  the  hounds,  they 
quickened  their  pace  mightily,  stamped  along  through 
the  high  grass,  yelled  with  rage,  and  were  maddened 
as  the  scent  rose,  provoking  them.  Master  cub  had 
seen  his  chance,  and  took  it  with  a  keen  determination. 
He  ran  more  like  a  thing  that  had  wings  than  a  young 
quadruped ;  but  he  was  in  his  first  youth,  life  was 
sweet,  and  the  brush  looked  impenetrable  to  his  enemies. 
He  ran,  we  ran,  the  dogs  went  at  their  swiftest;  Gae- 
tano and  the  more  experienced  were  carried  away  by 
our  impetuosity,  and  we  all  now  found  ourselves  in 
headlong  flight,  conscious  of  the  changing  sky  over- 
head, the  waving  and  fleeting  woods,  the  din  that  rose, 
the  quarry  that  rushed,  a  dream  of  motion,  in  which 
every  heart-beat  was  a  thrill  of  joy.  How  mad  it  all 
was !  and  how  mere  a  drunkenness  of  physical  pleasure ! 

For  twenty  minutes,  I  should  say,  we  tore  along  in 
this  whirlwind,  horses  and  dogs  at  the  top  of  their 
speed,  and  then,  panting,  ashamed,  confounded,  with 


114  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

heads  down,  tongues  out,  foam  on  their  muzzles,  tTie 
wretched  hounds  had  to  give  up  the  game.  Their 
young  demon  of  a  beast  was  too  much  for  them.  He 
had  got  to  cover,  and  there  lay  snug,  amid  a  dense 
wilderness  of  brush  and  pools  of  bluish-gray  water, 
hopeless  to  find  or  attack.  Our  beloved  Gaetano  was 
gnawing  his  lip,  and  throwing  a  fiery  word  at  the 
whippers-in,  who  should  have  known  better  than  let 
us  steal  away  after  this  fashion.  But  the  huntsman 
had  marked  his  company.  He  knew  we  were  spoiling 
for  a  run,  and  he  reckoned  the  day  was  still  before  us. 

"  The  dogs  will  find  the  right  quarry  now,  Signer 
Principe,"  said  the  old  man  cheerfully;  "  non,  abbia 
paura.  We  will  soon  make  a  fresh  start." 

Impatient  as  we  were  to  open  the  second  chapter 
while  our  blood  was  warm,  we  had  to  wait.  This  time, 
Don  Gaetano  took  matters  in  hand.  Again  we  stirred 
up  from  his  sleep  a  lively  cub,  but  the  Prince  was  to 
the  front  in  a  moment,  and  held  the  pack  in.  By  this 
the  sun  had  mounted;  a  slight  strip  of  cloud  hung 
doubtful  above  the  sea;  the  air  had  grown  sultry  for 
November.  Our  next  run  would  be  more  leisurely 
than  the  last.  We  had  now  turned  toward  the  desolate- 
looking  village  of  San  Giuliano,  an  ugly  country  for 
horsemanship,  but  a  paradise  for  the  descendants  of 
the  Laurentian  boar  that  still  wander  in  its  low  and 
tangled  brakes.  Ah,  now  we  shall  move;  the  dogs 
have  found;  an  old  inhabitant,  no  question,  for  see, 
Gaetano  lets  them  go  at  him.  There  is  sport  in  pros- 
pect. 

Nevertheless,  our  new  friend  did  not  scurry  along 
with  the  speed  of  his  young  cousin,  who  was  now  re- 
garding the  chase  from  beneath  some  twisted  and 
prickly  screen.  He  knew  the  country  well ;  but  so  did 
Gaetano;  and  when  he  headed  down  the  wind — a 
manoeuver  which  brought  us  nearer  the  sea-coast  again 


CHAP.  IX.]  A  HUNTING-PIECE  115 

— some  four  of  us  were  riding  pretty  close  to  him  at 
the  tail  of  the  hounds — the  Prince,  Sismondo,  Hage- 
dorn,  and  myself.  Now  I  never  did  care,  I  never  shall 
care,  to  be  in  at  the  death.  I  can  get  drunk  with  the 
pleasure  of  galloping  after  a  phantom,  but  I  am  not 
the  wild  huntsman  that  must  bring  down  his  game — 
only  the  dreamer  to  whom  rapid  motion  through  the 
air  is  inspiration  and  joy.  What  was  that  panting  red 
animal  to  me?  During  the  next  ten  minutes,  however, 
he  was  the  world  and  all  to  Gaetano.  The  German 
had  fallen  back;  I  was  taking  no  heed  of  Sismondo, 
whom  an  undulation  in  the  rough  brambly  hillocks  was 
delaying  behind  us,  when  I  saw  the  Prince  leaping  his 
horse  at  a  low  wall  in  front,  and  then  there  was  a 
crash.  I  followed  him  over  the  fence  instantly  a  few 
paces  lower  down,  found  myself  on  the  edge  of  a 
morass,  and  my  friend  motionless  under  the  weight  of 
his  fallen  steed.  He  had  miscalculated  the  distance, 
and  nearly  tumbled  into  the  water. 

Dismounting,  I  ran  up  to  him,  caught  the  reins  in 
which  he  was  tangled,  and  with  a  certain  British 
phlegm,  invaluable  at  that  moment,  was  able  to  get 
the  horse  on  his  feet  without  damaging  the  rider. 
Gaetano  had  fallen  into  a  dense  clump  of  reeds,  and 
thus  undoubtedly  had  saved  his  life.  It  took  him  some 
little  time  to  get  free  of  them.  I  was  standing  near, 
the  bridle  of  his  quivering  horse  in  one  hand,  while  I 
endeavored  to  help  him  up  with  the  other,  when  from 
over  the  wall  a  bullet  whizzed  by  me,  tearing  my  coat- 
sleeve  and  grazing  the  left  arm.  A  few  inches  more 
one  way,  it  would  have  gone  through  my  heart. 

I  cannot  describe  to  you  how  quickly  all  this  hap- 
pened. In  the  confusion  neither  Gaetano  nor  myself 
was  capable  of  observing  who  had  ridden  up  behind  us, 
nor,  of  course,  did  we  know  what  sportsmen  of  another 
kind  might  be  stalking  the  marshy  plains  over  which 


ii6  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BooK  I. 

the  boar  was  leading  us.  With  silent  questionings  we 
looked  into  one  another's  eyes,  and  then  across  the 
slight  erection  where  we  had  come  to  grief,  in  the 
hope  of  making  some  discovery.  Our  men  were  now 
all  advancing  as  fast  as  the  nature  of  the  ground  would 
permit.  The  hounds  had  rushed  on  ahead ;  but  those 
who  had  perceived  Gaetano  standing,  with  me  by  his 
side,  naturally  halted  to  make  inquiries.  We  soon  had 
a  little  crowd  around  us. 

"There  is  blood  dripping  from  your  arm,  mio  caro," 
said  the  Prince  affectionately ;  "  you  have  taken  a  hurt, 
and,  per  Bacco,  you  have  saved  my  life.  I  should  never 
but  for  you  have  got  from  under  my  Rosinante.  How, 
in  the  devil's  name,  did  I  mistake  the  distance?  Come, 
let  me  bind  up  that  wound." 

He  was  tearing  his  handkerchief  into  strips,  and  be- 
gan to  bind  my  arm;  but  there  was  a  shade  of  per- 
plexity in  his  looks. 

"You  are  pale,  Ser  Ardente,"  he  continued;  "you 
must  not  faint,"  and  he  was  for  putting  his  hunter's 
flask  to  my  lips.  I  declined  with  a  gesture. 

"  Are  n't  you  hurt  as  well,  Principe?"  I  said,  pulling 
myself  together. 

He  laughed.  "  Not  a  scratch.  I  should  have  been, 
had  you  not  come  up.  Remember,  I  owe  you  my  life." 

That  was  a  pleasant  hearing.  I  thought  more  of  it 
than  of  my  strange  hurt,  which  those  who  had  ridden 
from  a  distance  explained  to  themselves  by  my  having 
fallen  when  I  leaped  the  wall.  And,  indeed,  the  sud- 
den whizzing  past  me  of  a  bullet,  which  could  be  traced 
to  no  one  in  the  vicinity,  might  have  seemed  an  idle 
dream,  born  of  excitement  and  delusion.  Who  could 
have  fired  it?  Gaetano  put  that  question  to  me  in  a 
low  voice  when  we  had  mounted  again,  and,  leaving 
the  hunt,  which  he  would  not  allow  me  to  follow,  were 
turning  our  horses'  heads  in  the  direction  of  Roccaforte. 


CHAP.  IX.]  A  HUNTING-PIECE  117 

There  was  but  one  answer  possible — the  accommodat- 
ing national  phrase,  "  Chi  lo  sa?" 

We  two,  however,  did,  by  a  silent  compact,  go  down 
into  the  hollow  from  which  the  shot  came,  and  explore 
right  and  left,  though  to  no  purpose.  We  made  in- 
quiries of  one  or  two  contadini,  but  they  assured  us 
that  no  sportsmen  except  ourselves  had  been  seen  in 
the  neighborhood  that  day.  Gaetano's  countenance 
fell.  He  seemed  to  be  searching  in  the  recesses  of  his 
mind  for  an  explanation. 

"  Let  us  go  home,"  I  said  at  last;  "  my  wound  smarts 
a  little.  Think  it  an  accident,  Signer  Principe,  and  that 
the  unlucky  man  was  ashamed  to  confess  his  awkward 
handling." 

"  It  may  be  so,  Ardente,"  said  the  Prince ;  "  and 
look,"  he  added  suddenly,  "  from  this  day  you  and  I 
are  more  than  friends.  You  said,  '  Let  us  go  home.' 
Understand,  then,  the  Rocca  is  your  home  while  there 
is  a  Sorelli  to  guard  it.  You  agree?" 

I  grasped  his  hand  firmly. 

"  But,  for  all  that,"  he  continued,  "  I  do  not  believe 
the  shot  was  accidental." 

"No?"  I  said,  in  a  mood  between  fear  and  hope; 
"have  you  any  suspicions?" 

It  was  uncharitable,  I  dare  say,  but  had  one  name 
escaped  his  lips  I  could  not  have  been  sorry.  The 
Prince  shook  his  head.  "  I  can't  fix  on  any  one,"  he 
answered ;  "  all  I  know  is  that  you  have  put  yourself 
in  danger  before  coming  to  Roccaforte ;  that  in  Italy 
murder  has  a  thousand  eyes  and  weapons  always  ready ; 
and  that  the  stroke  which  kills  is  usually  unsuspected." 

These  words  set  me  thinking;  they  appeared  so  rea- 
sonable that  I  dismissed  the  unlikely  charge  against 
Lucera,  which  I  had  been  shaping  in  my  own  mind.  I 
preferred  an  old  apprehension  to  a  new  one.  Still,  I 
could  not  be  sure.  As  we  were  entering  the  courtyard 


li8  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  I. 

of  the  castle,  in  fact,  that  same  afternoon,  in  company 
with  our  guests  returning  from  the  chase,  I  overheard 
Sismondo  talking  in  his  loud  fashion  to  the  Duke  of 
Sila.  "  And  yet  some  folks  are  not  afraid  of  the  evil 
eye!"  said  he,  snarling. 

"  Eh,  te  faccio  na  fica,"  answered  the  laughing  Duke, 
and  he  made  the  well-known  gesture.  "  Heaven  keep 
it  from  you  and  me.  But  who  was  looking  at  Gaetano 
when  his  horse  fell  with  him?" 

"Who,  indeed?"  returned  the  Marchese,  his  eyes 
scintillating  with  the  strangest  passion.  "  I  suppose 
he  that  aims  at  the  boar  has  been  planted  there  by  the 
huntsman ;  what  do  I  know  ?  " 

He  knew  nothing,  the  envious  fool,  I  said  to  myself. 
For  the  Duke  and  Costanza,  who  had  been  told  of 
Gaetano's  accident,  were  embracing  him,  and  giving  me 
a  world  of  thanks  and  insisting  that  Dr.  Mirtillo  should 
see  to  my  arm  immediately.  As  for  Costanza,  with  a 
charming  expression  of  gratitude,  she  gave  me  her  hand. 

"  You  saved  Gaetano,  and  you  belong  to  us.  Life 
for  life — is  it  not  so,  caro  padre  ?  Tell  Signer  Ardente 
that  he  belongs  to  us." 

"We,  rather,  to  him,"  said  the  old  man,  graciously. 
"  And  you  are  wounded,  my  dear  friend  ?  Who  has 
gone  for  Dr.  Mirtillo?"  looking  round  on  his  people. 

I  made  some  incoherent  answer.  But  as  for  the 
physician,  no,  I  would  not  see  him.  I  protested  that 
there  was  no  occasion.  Gaetano  appeared  anxious, 
but  undecided.  Hagedorn,  who  could  wear  a  mask  of 
impenetrable  German  dulness  when  he  pleased,  and  who 
perhaps  knew,  though  he  would  never  tell,  whence  the 
mysterious  shot  proceeded,  now  came  to  the  rescue. 
"  Quite  right,  Ser  Inglese,"  he  said,  "  you  have  lost 
some  blood ;  you  don't  want  to  lose  more.  The  Italian 
surgery  is  not  yet  emancipated  altogether  from  the 
barber's  basin." 


CHAP.  IX.]  A  HUNTING-PIECE  119 

"  Exactly,"  I  answered ;  "  if  you,  Signer  Albaspina, 
will  do  the  doctoring,  I  shall  feel  that  I  am  in  good 
hands.  Come  with  me  to  my  room." 

But  I  was  taking  to  myself  in  silence  the  words  that 
Costanza  had  spoken,  "  A  life  for  a  life."  Perhaps  I 
had  not  done  much  for  Gaetano  after  all ;  yet  I  counted 
on  them  as  an  absolution,  so  that  I  was  merely  amused 
when  Hagedorn,  helping  to  bandage  my  arm,  said  to 
me,  "  Have  you  no  belief  in  the  malocchio  after  this 
morning's  adventure?" 

"  None  at  all,"  said  I ;  "  but  there  is  something  I  did 
not  believe  when  I  came  to  this  old  castle  which  I  be- 
lieve now." 

He  looked  at  me  inquiringly.  "  Well,  what  is  your 
new  article  of  faith?  " 

"  I  believe  in  the  crimson  motto  of  the  Sorelli, 
'  Sangue  lava  sangue.' ' 

"  It  is  the  law  of  life,"  said  Hagedorn. 

Thus  I  came  by  my  hurt,  Laura.  And  now  I  end 
this  long  story,  which  I  have  thrown  into  chapters,  by 
way  of  brightening  it  up,  and  send  from  the  Monti 
Lepini  before  I  turn  my  back  on  them.  Shall  I  ever 
see  Roccaforte  again  ? 


BOOK    II 

IN    THE    UNDER-WORLD 


CHAPTER   X 

LORDS   OF  MISRULE 

I  AM  within  the  walls  of  Rome.  I  have  seen  and 
conversed  with  Tiberio  Sforza.  But  how  shall  I 
speak  of  our  interview?  It  has  shaken  me  like  an 
earthquake.  Dare  I  write  it  down?  Some  deep  feel- 
ing which  I  cannot  master  warns  me  not  to  leave  it  un- 
recorded— a  presentiment  hangs  about  me  that  one  day 
it  will  perhaps  stand  me  in  stead.  Nevertheless,  I 
shrink  and  hesitate.  Will  the  very  letters  in  which  I 
write  turn  scarlet  under  my  pen,  while  I  endeavor  to 
trace  the  features  of  this  enigmatic,  forbidding,  and  yet 
seductive  Italian — the  latest  birth  of  a  monstrous  time? 
What  ought  I  to  do  ? 

Thus  far,  I  had  had  no  scruple  in  sending  these  frag- 
ments of  a  diary  to  Marinden;  since,  however  clearly 
they  make  me  answerable  for  Renzaccio's  untimely 
end,  they  prove  that  it  was  on  my  part  chance-medley, 
the  accident  of  an  encounter  in  which  I  was  not  to 
blame.  It  is  true  that  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  my 
stained  hands.  I  am  always  invoking  the  pure  and 
tender  memories  of  Gaetano,  of  Costanza,  in  which,  as 
in  a  miraculous  fountain,  to  bathe  my  over-sensitive 
conscience.  But  what  is  this  to  the  bloody  dawn  that, 
all  of  a  sudden,  has  flushed  from  nadir  to  zenith,  has 
polluted  and  brought  down  the  sky  over  my  head,  one 
awful  cloud  of  murder?  I  seem,  at  a  single  stride,  to 


124  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

have  passed  beyond  humanity.  Not  as  doing,  but  as 
knowing;  almost  as  an  eavesdropper — at  any  rate  as  a 
father  confessor,  who  should  find  himself  burdened  with 
a  secret  which  made  him  henceforth  strange  among  his 
fellows.  Write  that  to  Laura  I  never  can.  But  brood 
over  it  in  silence,  walk  and  talk  and  sleep  with  it  as  a 
specter  at  my  side,  that  is  just  as  impossible.  I  will 
trust  it  to  these  pages,  and  hide  them  in  my  little  room 
at  Finocchio's,  where  no  one  enters  but  Giovanni. 
Measuring  his  terror  by  my  own,  I  am  assured  that  if 
he  did  but  see  this  prologue  to  what  follows,  he  would 
read  not  a  line  further.  I  am  safe  with  him.  It  is  my 
own  thoughts  of  which  I  cherish  reluctantly  the  greatest 
fear.  .  .  . 

Let  me  recall  how  it  was.  The  hunting-party  had 
broken  up — Sismondo,  my  possible  assassin,  the  last 
to  leave,  and  Hagedorn,  knapsack  over  his  shoulder, 
starting  on  some  classic-antiquarian  tour  in  the  upper 
Apennines,  intent,  as  always,  upon  making  friends 
among  the  contadini  and  snapping  from  them  un- 
considered  trifles,  for  which  benevolent  project  winter 
is  the  season.  I  left  under  a  promise  to  come  again 
soon.  Costanza  had  put  off  her  reserve,  except  that 
she  never,  in  my  hearing,  alluded  to  religious  subjects ; 
but  she  was  gay,  direct,  and  I  had  almost  written 
sisterly,  in  conversation  with  me.  Her  brother  told 
me  much  of  his  hopes  and  fears  for  the  regeneration 
of  Italy;  but  no  more  of  that.  Hardly  do  I  know 
where  we  stand  in  this  blinding  storm.  No,  no — I  will 
not,  I  must  not,  suspect  the  whole  world.  Gaetano  is 
chivalrous,  frank,  and  daring,  not  a  conspirator,  but  the 
soul  of  an  heroic  age,  born  too  late  among  a  people 
he  is  incapable  of  guiding.  He  is  Dante  exiled  from 
Florence,  but  loving,  not  hating  it.  I  will  think  of 
Gaetano  as  Dante,  austere,  yet  tender-hearted,  with  a 
rhythmic  chant  in  him  that  makes  his  being  music. 


CHAP.  X.]  LORDS  OF  MISRULE  125 

The  stern  fortress  of  the  Rocca  sent  me  from  it  in  this 
mood,  vaguely  content,  vaguely  hopeful. 

I  pass  over  Giovanni's  welcome  on  seeing  me  again. 
He  is  really  attaching  and  attachable.  But  he  cried, 
"  Signer,  tell  me  not  where  you  have  been.  Oh,  if  I 
had  but  swallowed  three  grains  of  say-next-to-nothing, 
you  would  never  have  flown  through  the  air  like  a 
sorcerer,  and  left  me  to  look  for  a  needle  in  the  hay. 
Basta,  basta.  Behold  you  once  more,  thanks  to  the 
Madonna  and  Sant'  Antonio." 

"Why  Sant'  Antonio,  my  dear  man?  I  was  not 
aware  that  he  took  an  interest  in  me." 

"  Sant'  Antonio,  if  you  pray  to  him,  and  I  did,  will 
find  you  anything  you  have  lost  —  if  it  has  not  been 
stolen.  With  thieves  and  brigands  Sant'  Antonio  — 
honest  man  —  has  no  commerce.  Ecco!" 

"  Well,  thanks  be,  then,  to  Sant'  Antonio.  But,  now 
I  am  back  in  Rome,  my  errand  remains  to  do.  I  have 
particular  good  reason  to  meet  Tiberio  Sforza.  No  use 
acting  the  innocent,  Giovanni.  Tell  me  where  he  lives 
—  not  the  trattoria  Ranieri  —  else  I  will  advertise  and 
give  this  house  for  reference." 

I  spoke  decidedly,  once  and  not  twice,  waiting  till  the 
flood  of  eloquence  was  dry,  which  he  poured  out  in 
answer.  "  Dunque,  non  volete?"  I  said,  as  though  we 
were  bargaining.  A  glance  at  my  face  convinced  him 
that  I  was  serious. 

"  Si,  Signore,  voglio  bene,"  he  replied,  trembling  and 
uncomfortable.  "  But  this  time,"  he  went  on,  "  Sant' 
Antonio  will  not  restore  Vossignoria,  if  you  are  lost." 

"You  mean  to  say  Tiberio  is  a  brigand?" 

He  made  an  immense  gesture,  "  I  wash  my  hands  of 
it.  What  can  I  more?  Tiberio  lives  in  the  Palazzo 
Mocenni,  third  piano.  He  calls  himself  something  else 
now." 

Giovanni  whispered  a  name  which,  for  fear  of  acci- 


126  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

dents,  I  shall  not  put  down  here.  And  there  is  no 
Palazzo  Mocenni — I  have  altered  the  original;  neither 
do  I  mean  to  indicate  the  quarter  of  the  city  in  which 
Tiberio  had  taken  up  his  abode.  "  I  will  go  alone,"  was 
my  last  word  to  Finocchio ;  "  should  I  not  come  back, 
pray  to  your  Sant'  Antonio,  but  don't  advertise  for  me. 
This  time  I  decline  to  be  troubled  with  a  disguise." 

The  days  passed  which  I  had  resolved  to  spend  in 
taking  a  general  view  of  the  city.  And  then  yesterday 
forenoon  I  walked  up  to  Monte  Pincio,  meditating 
awhile  in  its  lonely  paths,  pausing  before  the  busts  on 
their  pedestals  of  celebrated  Italians,  which  I  always 
find  fresh  and  inspiring.  My  design  was  to  tune  these 
mixed,  tumultuous  emotions  of  mine  in  a  key  of  simple 
courage.  The  white  domino  that  had  brushed  by  me 
on  the  steps  of  San  Romito,  if  it  were  Sforza,  might 
prove  formidable.  In  London  we  had  struck  up  an 
acquaintance,  not  very  warm  on  my  side,  but  of  the 
sort  which  commits  a  man  some  degrees  beyond  his  in- 
tention. We  were  certain  to  meet  in  a  place  so  con- 
fined as  Rome,  with  its  set  promenades,  public  drives, 
and  frequent  spectacles.  After  all,  why  should  we  not? 
I  turned  my  steps  toward  the  Palazzo  Mocenni,  as- 
cended to  the  third  piano,  and  rang  the  bell. 

A  lad,  who  appeared  to  be  no  more  than  thirteen  or 
fourteen,  with  an  excessively  fair  face  and  yellow  curls, 
answered  it.  He  took  my  card  in  silence  when  I  had 
asked  whether  Tiberio  was  within,  and  ran  off  to  some 
inner  apartment.  Almost  immediately,  I  heard  a  firm 
foot  on  the  carpeted  floor ;  I  caught  sight  of  an  Orien- 
tal dressing-gown,  and  a  flute-like  voice  bade  me  step 
over  the  threshold.  Aye,  Tiberio  Sforza  —  the  man 
himself;  I  was  in  his  rooms  and  could  study  him  at 
leisure. 

What  struck  me  first  was  the  change  that  had  passed 
over  his  appearance.  He  had  surely  stepped  down  out 


CHAP.  X.]  LORDS  OF  MISRULE  127 

of  a  golden  cloud.  His  dress  in  London  had  been 
shabby,  not  to  say  mean ;  his  lodgings,  where  I  never 
had  visited  him,  were  in  one  of  the  poor  streets  fre- 
quented by  Italians  between  Leicester  and  Soho  squares. 
That  in  those  days  money  was  not  flush  with  Tiberio 
or  his  comrades  might  be  gathered  from  a  variety  of 
tokens;  nay,  it  was  our  common  poverty  which  drew 
us  into  a  laughing  fellowship ;  we  were  the  black-coated 
proletarians  whom  society  insisted  on  starving  as  a 
sacrifice  to  respectability — that  goddess  grave  and  grim. 
But  in  these  sumptuous  rooms,  with  their  parade  of 
marbles  and  magnificence,  quantum  mutatus!  Our 
dull  worm  had  put  on  wings  of  dazzling  luster — he  was 
all  eyes  and  jewels.  Eyes  that  pierced  me  through 
and  through,  in  a  mask  that  never  changed  its  terrible 
pallor.  But  the  tones  had  their  caressing  softness. 

"  Sia  il  benvenuto,  my  dear  Arden,"  he  cried,  grasp- 
ing my  hand ;  "  take  a  chair  and  feel  at  home.  Asca- 
nio,  luncheon!  You  are  just  in  time.  How  did  you 
find  me?" 

I  had  reflected  on  the  way  of  the  game.  He  might 
finesse ;  but  in  dealing  with  Italians,  as  with  Easterns, 
whom  they  so  strongly  resemble,  there  is  one  rule  for 
us  Transalpines — frankness.  I  answered,  therefore,  as 
we  sat  looking  at  each  other,  "  Oh,  easily  enough — 
Finocchio." 

"  Ah,  Finocchio,"  said  he,  "  to  be  sure.  And  does 
Finocchio  tell  everybody  that  I  have  come  into  an  es- 
tate and  taken  its  name?" 

"  Not  quite,"  I  answered,  in  a  slight  pique  :  "  I  made 
him  tell  me.  You  remember  in  London  we  had  our 
confidences,  which  went  no  further." 

"  Yes,  I  remember  that  well.  And  so — but  please 
join  me  in  my  modest  colazione — and  so,  you  would 
like  a  little  more  confidence?  Why  not?  It  is  all  in 
a  good  cause." 


128  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

I  accepted  his  invitation.  But  the  meal  was  hardly 
so  modest  as  he  implied.  Small,  tasty  dishes,  rare 
French  wines,  of  which  we  drank  sparingly,  and  after- 
ward cigarettes  which  no  government  had  patented. 
Sforza  watched  me  with  a  keen  scrutiny,  expecting 
perhaps  the  severe  observations  of  the  Socialist  on  his 
unproductive  consumption.  But  I  had  other  objects  in 
view. 

"  Been  long  in  Rome?"  he  inquired,  after  the  stray 
talk  that  was  merely  a  feeling  in  the  dark  toward 
some  real  commencement. 

"  Off  and  on.     Partly  in  the  Monti  Lepini." 

He  looked  mildly  at  me.     "Where?"  said  he. 

"At  Roccaforte,"  said  I.  "And  do  you  know,  Ti- 
berio,  I  thought  I  saw  you  there  one  afternoon,  in  a 
funeral  procession." 

He  was  always  pallid,  but  a  relaxation  in  the  lines  of 
his  mask  betrayed  amusement.  "  And  I  you !  On  the 
steps  of  San  Romito.  You  were  not  wearing  your 
present  clothes.  But  I  had  not  forgotten  the  face  of 
Arden  Massiter." 

Then  it  was  true,  and  this  revelation  came  either  as  a 
clearing  of  the  sky,  or  a  crooked  flash  with  thunder  to 
follow  it.  What  should  I  say  ?  Before  my  mind  was 
made  up,  Tiberio  continued,  "  I  thought  you  would  be 
calling,  when  next  you  arrived  in  Rome.  I  have  read 
some  of  your  articles  in  the  '  Clarion  ' — unsigned,  sed 
novi  tuos  sonitus,  as  the  eloquent  Tully  would  observe — 
they  are  very  fine,  very  true.  Now  you  wish  for  my  con- 
fidence. Really?  "  He  sat  up,  caressed  his  bare  chin, 
and  threw  a  softer  grace  into  his  accent.  We  had 
been  talking  English,  with  an  occasional  phrase  in 
Italian.  The  rest  of  the  conversation  was  wholly  in 
English. 

"  Let  me  send  away  Ascanio  first — excuse  me,"  said 
he,  and  he  went  out,  spoke  to  the  lad,  and  came  back 


CHAP.  X.]  LORDS  OF  MISRULE  129 

after  locking  the  outer  door.  I  could  hear  the  key 
turn.  Was  it  a  signal  of  danger?  I  had  no  weapons; 
but  in  a  Roman  palazzo,  during  broad  day,  there  was 
probably  not  much  temptation  to  murder  a  journalist. 
Accordingly,  I  waited  for  Tiberio  to  resume  his  seat. 

The  unpleasant  and  perplexing  disproportion  be- 
tween his  head-piece  and  the  rest  of  his  anatomy, 
which  had  often  occupied  my  thoughts  in  our  earlier 
acquaintance,  now  seemed  more  decided  than  ever.  It 
was  as  though  two  designs  had  been  carelessly  fused  in 
one,  leaving  the  result  to  chance.  With  all  his  pallor, 
and  in  spite  of  his  too  coldly  metallic  eyes,  Sforza  had 
a  beauty  of  countenance,  though  spoiled  somewhat  by 
an  upper  lip  which  was  too  long.  His  thick  dark  hair 
set  off  the  pale  forehead  admirably.  But  then  his  figure 
was  undersized,  packed  close,  less  graceful  than  muscu- 
lar, and  certainly  too  broad.  If  his  mouth  betrayed  a 
flexibility  which  might  mean  cunning,  his  brawny  arms 
were  no  unfit  symbol  of  rude  strength  or  even  violence. 
In  the  lower  face  one  might  discern  the  versatile,  pos- 
sibly treacherous,  lineaments  of  Mercury,  god  of  thieves 
and  business.  The  body  was  that  of  Hercules,  dimin- 
ished in  height,  but  adamantine,  as  though  yet  equal 
to  his  dozen  labors.  I  never  could  think  of  such  a 
man  asimy  friend ;  I  should  be  slow  to  choose  him  for 
an  enemy. 

Luncheon  over,  the  door  locked,  and  a  silence  that 
might  be  felt  holding  the  palace  in  a  dream  from  cellar 
to  summit,  we  had  the  world  to  ourselves.  As  my  host 
sat  negligent  in  his  easy-chair,  with  the  light  upon  him, 
suddenly  I  remembered,  and  the  next  instant  I  saw, 
beneath  his  right  ear,  a  mark,  as  of  an  old  wound,  or  a 
cut  made  with  some  sharp  instrument,  the  shape  of  a 
small  ringworm,  ruddy  by  contrast  with  the  neck,  which 
was  of  unusual  whiteness.  Finocchio  had  warned  me  to 

find  out  how  Tiberio  came  by  that  signature.     Was  it 
o 


130  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  II.' 

a  brand — some  token  that  he  did  not  belong  to  him- 
self? That  it  was  due  to  accident  I  could  not  imagine. 

Sforza  crossed  his  legs  carelessly,  offered  me  a  fresh 
cigarette,  which  I  declined,  and  said  in  his  most  affec- 
tionate manner,  "  You  heard  the  key  turn  a  few  seconds 
ago,  my  dear  Arden?  Bene;  it  has  imprisoned  you 
and  me — locked  us  both  in !  We  are  au  secret,  as  the 
French  jailer  has  it.  I  respect  your  admirable  qual- 
ities ;  I  show  my  respect  by  unfolding  the  page  of  my 
history  that  you  are  thirsting  to  read." 

"  You  expect  me  to  keep  the  secret  when  it  has  been 
told  me?  I  make  no  promise,"  said  I,  rising  and  stand- 
ing before  his  chair. 

He  laughed  gently,  if  such  a  word  applies  to  the 
quietness  that  sent  a  shiver  down  my  back.  I  should 
have  preferred  a  tiger's  roar.  Lifting  his  large  hand 
in  deprecation,  he  continued,  "  It  shall  be,  my  dear 
friend,  as  you  like  it.  Hear  first,  then  go  down  into 
the  Piazza.  Colonna,  or  up  to  the  Piazza  of  St.  Peter's, 
and  shout  at  the  top  of  your  voice.  To  me  it  is  all  one. 
I  leave  the  decision  entirely  in  your  hands.  What  say 
you  ?  " 

I  hesitated;  and  I  was  lost.  "You  will  hear  me," 
concluded  Sforza,  jovially.  "  But  you  object  to  a  long 
story.  And  I.  The  first  question  you  put  to  me,  in 
your  tacit  Britannic  style,  is  how  I  come  to  be  master 
of  this  little  menage,  whereas  in  London  I  was  out  at 
elbows,  a  proletarian,  whose  black  coat  was  always  at 
the  monte  di  pieta.  Santiddio,  but  you  English  are 
commercial  to  the  marrow.  Why  not  ask  about  my 
ideals,  my  boyish  hopes,  my  disillusions,  griefs,  miser- 
ies, and  final  despair?  Who  is  Tiberio  Sforza?  He  is 
an  anarchist.  Was  he  always  one  ?  Perhaps.  Did  he 
know  it  always?  I  think  not.  Therein  behold  the 
tragedy  that  marches,  marches  day  and  night  to  its 
denouement.  Yet  you  will  not  ask  me  how  ?  "  His  eyes 


CHAP.  X.]  LORDS  OF  MISRULE  131 

glistened  like  some  night-wandering  animal's  through 
the  smoke. 

"Take  me  behind  the  scenes,  or  under  the  stage,"  I 
rejoined,  stretching  myself,  "  but  please  roll  the  five  acts 
into  one.  What  is  it  that  makes  rebels  of  us,  whether 
anarchist  as  you  or  Socialist  as  I?  The  misery  of  our 
brothers  and  sisters,  I  suppose." 

"  Of  our  own,"  he  added  fiercely.  "  If  I  am  starv- 
ing, shall  I  love  the  man  that  has  dined  ?  If  he  rolls  by 
in  his  carriage,  and  I  am  in  the  gutter,  do  you  think  I 
love  him  the  more  when  he  splashes  me  with  mud  ?  If 
society  has  cursed  me  from  the  womb,  shall  I  bless  and 
praise  it?  No,  not  I.  Who  is  Tiberio  Sforza?  Shall 
I  astonish  you  with  the  truth  ?  Take  it,  then.  He  is  a 
king's  bastard.  You  can  see  it  in  his  face,  hands,  and 
figure,  if  you  have  eyes." 

The  smoke  cleared  away  as  I  leaned  over  to  take  my 
fill  of  gazing  at  this  dangerous  lunatic.  He  let  me  gaze, 
and  uttered  a  name  deep  in  his  throat.  "Well,  do  you 
deny  the  likeness?"  he  inquired  with  a  scowl.  It 
was  extraordinary.  So  long  as  the  features  had  that 
dark  frown  upon  them  they  bore  a  resemblance,  as 
peculiar  as  undoubted,  to  others  which  I  knew  well 
from  a  score  of  busts  and  photographs.  Yet  Tiberio, 
with  his  usually  pallid  cheeks  and  his  refined  profile, 
must  have  come  of  a  very  different  stock  on  the  mother's 
side.  Nay,  but  were  this  an  hallucination,  his  glass 
would  confirm  in  it  any  man  who  saw  reflected  there  a 
likeness  so  questionable  (to  borrow  Shakspere's  word) 
as  I  saw  then.  And  which  of  us  did  not  know  the  page 
alluded  to  by  Sforza  in  the  chronique  scandaleuse  of  our 
too  gossiping  days?  The  blood  royal  of  an  ancient 
house  might  be  running  in  those  veins.  Tiberio  per- 
ceived in  my  looks  a  tacit  yielding  to  his  argument. 
He  laughed  louder,  rubbed  his  hands  delightedly,  and 
springing  up,  gave  me  a  sudden  blow,  exclaiming, 


132  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

"  Salute  my  Royal  Highness,  you  infidel.  Don't  you 
remember  how  you  used  to  call  me  the  Duke  of  Milan? 
I  am  better  than  that.  A  king's  son — per  Giove! 
though  not  the  eldest;  but  as  good  as  the  best  of 
them.  I  will  prove  it,  too !  " 

I  ventured  on  a  douche  of  cold  water  to  this  caper- 
ing. "  Altezza,"  I  said  gravely,  "  in  royal  houses  it  is 
the  mother  who  makes  the  pedigree,  I  fear." 

He  became  serious.  "  You  are  right  My  mother 
was  of  high  descent — oh,  no  fear  as  to  pedigree ;  we 
trace  it  to  the  proudest  line  of  Perugia,  the  Baglioni. 
But  when  this  befel,  the  family  had  come  low  in  the 
world,  and  she,  poor  girl,  was  a  keeper's  daughter  at  one 
of  the  royal  shooting-lodges.  He — this  modern  Caesar 
— came,  saw,  and  conquered.  Then  he  went  away  and 
forgot.  A  passing  whim !  He  plucked  a  wild  rose  out 
of  the  hedge,  pulled  it  to  pieces,  and  chucked  it  away. 
My  mother  went  to  the  hospital.  Her  drunken  old 
father — a  scamp  who  was  too  fond  of  the  flask — dropped 
or  tumbled  out  of  his  situation.  When  I  was  born,  devil 
knows  where  my  royal  parent  had  gone ;  so  I  went  to 
the  Foundling.  I  don't  blame  my  mother.  How  could 
she  help  it?  In  fact,  she  did  the  only  decent  thing  left 
— she  died.  I  was  always  a  bastard ;  now  think  of  me 
as  an  orphan.  Follow  my  career  in  a  bird's-eye  view. 
'  The  Refuge/  you  say  in  English.  Ah,  a  blessed 
Refuge!  Bad  food,  and  not  much  of  that;  foul  air, 
fouler  companions ;  schooling  a  farce,  the  stick  a  reality ; 
fights,  bruises,  wounds,  outrages,  a  children's  hell,  made 
on  purpose ;  le  seul  autorise  par  le  gouvernement.  That 
was  my  home  for  thirteen  years.  Do  you  comprehend  ? 
Thirteen  years!  No  wonder  I  had  a  raging  devil 
inside  me." 

"  You  were  a  born  anarchist,  Tiberio,"  I  said,  making 
no  attempt  to  hide  the  compassion  which  his  dreadful 
tale  provoked.  "  How  did  you  get  an  education  after 
all?  Not  in  the  Foundling." 


CHAP.  X.]  LORDS  OF  MISRULE  133 

"  Diamine — yes,  but  in  the  Foundling.  I  was  per- 
haps what  the  priests  call  vicious;  what  would  they  be, 
dear  innocents,  in  a  breeding-place  like  La  Generale? 
Oh,  where  was  all  this  ?  At  Livorno — Leghorn.  I 
count  myself  a  Tuscan  by  birth ;  I  speak  the  purest 
Delia  Crusca.  Adunque!  Devil  I  might  be,  but  idiot, 
no !  I  stole — there  is  never  any  way  of  getting  things, 
if  you  are  a  bastard  and  an  orfanello,  but  to  steal  them. 
Therefore  I  stole  a  torn  book  of  arithmetic,  taught 
myself  sums  when  I  was  not  having  the  stick  across  my 
shoulders,  and  one  day  went  on  my  knees  to  the  Director, 
and  implored  him  with  abundance  of  tears  to  examine 
me  in  figures.  Who  was  astonished  but  the  good  man  ? 
He  tried  me  in  the  four  rules;  he  made  me  work  out 
fabulous  riches  in  bills  and  invoices — simple  interest, 
compound  interest — devil  take  me  if  I  could  do  as 
well  now.  I  became  a  wonder  in  his  eyes.  Also  I 
had  kept  a  journal  of  what  went  on  in  the  Foundling — 
very  clever,  to  the  life,  witty  for  a  lad  of  my  age.  He 
showed  it  to  the  others,  among  them  a  doctor,  Franchi. 
The  kind  Franchi  found  me  a  situation  in  a  small  com- 
mercial house.  I  was  launched." 

"  And  well  launched.  You  had  only  now  to  keep  on 
in  the  straight  road." 

Tiberio  fixed  me  with  scornful  eyes.  "  Arden,  you 
a  Socialist,  and  tell  me  so?  You?  But  how  was  I 
launched?  I  had  appetites,  ambitions,  let  us  say 
vices ;  and  five  lire  a  week,  with  a  meal  a  day  thrown 
in.  Moreover,  the  drunken  old  grandfather,  Naldo, 
came  round  now,  when  he  heard  that  I  was — launched ! 
I  did  n't  want  to  let  him  have  my  few  soldini. 
But  he  lay  in  wait  for  me,  and  took  them.  Then 
what  was  I  to  do?  I  stood  it  out  three  years, 
with  old  Sindbad's  legs  round  my  neck,  until  one  fine 
day  I  looked  up,  and  I  was  carrying  a  corpse ;  Naldo 
was  dead  of  his  liquor.  I  should  have  written  myself 
a  free  man ;  but  they  gave  me  no  time." 


134  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

"  Who  gave  you  no  time?  " 

"Well,"  he  said  reflectively,  "my  employers.  We 
had  a  little  difference.  They  said  it  was  embezzling; 
I  said  it  was  borrowing.  Anyhow,  the  tradesman  is 
always  a  thief,  and  to  cure  thieving  with  thieving  is 
homoeopathy — Hahnemann's  system.  I  knew  they 
cheated  ;  but  they  persuaded  the  jury  that  I  did.  Be- 
hold the  foundling  in  prison." 

This  was  news  to  me.  Tiberio  had  been  introduced 
to  our  London  club  as  a  man  of  some  genius,  anarchist 
in  principle,  well  seen  in  Italian  politics  of  a  revolu- 
tionary cast.  A  turn  in  the  prison-cell  would  no  more 
have  degraded  him  than  it  did  the  Russian  patriots  who 
came  to  us  from  the  Petropaulovski  fortress  on  the 
Neva,  so  long  as  it  was  not  for  ordinary  crime.  But 
embezzlement !  I  had  to  curb  myself  lest  I  should 
start  away  from  Tiberio  in  disgust.  He  was  watching 
me  with  all  his  eyes.  The  deadly  pallor  had,  not 
deepened,  but  whitened. 

"  You  were  unlucky,  Signor  Sforza.  I  hope  you  did 
not  stay  long  in  prison." 

"  Not  so  unlucky,"  he  answered  with  a  meaning 
smile ;  "  it  is  an  apprenticeship  as  another.  I  met  some 
of  my  comrades  there  again ;  the  Foundling  supplies 
inmates  gratis  to  all  public  institutions.  I  can't  say 
much  for  the  salubrity  of  the  Italian  prison;  it  might  be 
better  ventilated.  And  one  sleeps  badly  when  murder 
is  going  on  in  the  room." 

"  Murder  in  prison  ?  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that 
the  convicts  commit  murder  inside  a  jail,  with  police 
and  warders  about?" 

"  They  do  it  without  asking  leave,  scores  of  them. 
Go  and  see  for  yourself.  But  I  was  giving  you  the 
biography  of  my  poor  Tiberio.  In  prison,  as  every- 
where, he  made  friends.  He  found  a  brotherhood  which 
took  him  to  its  arms.  Below  the  robber-societies  that 


CHAP.  X.]  LORDS  OF  MISRULE  135 

call  themselves  Church  and  State,  monarchies,  parlia- 
ments, middle-class,  this  unhappy  bastard  discovered  a 
society  of  the  miserable,  in  which  he  had  a  birthright. 
Their  seal  was  stamped  upon  him.  What  are  you  look- 
ing at  so  intently,  Arden?"  he  interrupted  himself  with 
a  ghastly  smile.  "This  mark  under  my  ear?  You 
know  it?  The  brotherhood  gave  me  that.  Oh,  as  a 
love-token.  In  Naples,  when  a  young  fellow  has  a 
sweetheart,  whom  he  wants  to  keep  from  the  wolves,  he 
just  takes  a  razor,  and  slashes  her  on  the  cheek,  under 
the  right  eye — Cienzo  Saetta,  his  mark.  She  is  safe 
then,  I  warrant  you."  He  caressed  the  scar,  as  if  it  had 
been  a  decoration. 

'  "  Ah,  the  very  thing  I  was  curious  to  hear  at  first 
hand,"  said  I.  "  All  sorts  of  wild  tales  are  told  of  the 
Camorra.  What  is  the  case  really?  " 

"  Join  us,  and  you  will  learn." 

"  But  is  it  spread  through  the  prisons,  as  they  say  ? 
Has  it  got  a  footing  in  the  army  ?  You  talk  of  Naples. 
The  Camorra  in  Naples,  every  one  declares,  is  a  thing 
of  the  past,  dead  and  gone,  like  brigandage  in  the 
Abruzzi." 

Tiberio's  mirth  was  unbounded.  "Oh,  Dio  mio! 
exactly,"  he  cried;  "it  is  dead,  finished,  under  a  big 
stone — hie  jacet,  pray  for  its  poor  soul!  Like  brigan- 
dage, blackmail,  the  Mafia  in  Sicily — or  like  company- 
promoting  in  your  virtuous  and  pudibond  Albion — it 
is  no  more.  Ah,  see  what  a  thing  is  public  opinion ! 
The  newspapers  issue  their  decree,  '  Let  the  Camorra 
cease,'  and,  presto,  it  is  gone.  But,  my  dear  Arden,  you 
restore  my  youth,  so  confiding  are  you  in  the  journals." 

I  let  him  run  on.  "  Then  it  lives  still,"  I  said  when 
he  quieted  down. 

"  Lives  ?  Yes,  and  flourishes.  In  the  army,  where 
the  General  Staff,  to  stamp  out  the  plague,  has  cunningly 
scattered  it  through  all  the  regiments ;  for  every  Camor- 


136  ARDEN   MASSITER  [Boon  II. 

rista  becomes  the  nucleus  of  a  lodge.  In  the  prisons — 
but  it  was  always  in  them — in  the  islands  among  con- 
victs, from  Elba  to  Santo  Stefano  and  round  to  the  Tre- 
miti,  off  the  Calabrian  coast.  In  high  life,  also ;  here, 
at  the  doors  of  the  Parliament,  in  the  saloons  of  the 
noblesse — perhaps  higher  up  still.  And  I — look  at  me, 
you  English  revolte,  consider  me  well — I  that  you  know 
as  Tiberio  Sforza  am  its  master  and  king." 

He  was  standing  erect,  his  right  arm  stretched 
toward  me  in  a  Ciceronian  attitude,  his  voice  no  longer 
soft,  his  eyes  burning.  "You  came  for  my  secret,"  he 
thundered ;  "  take  it.  Will  you  give  it  tongue  in  the 
Piazza  Colonna?" 

I  made  no  reply,  as  he  sank  breathless  in  his  chair. 
I  was  hardly  attending  to  him.  My  thoughts  went  over 
all  I  had  been  told,  or  in  a  desultory  fashion  had 
gathered  up  from  my  reading,  of  the  Neapolitan 
Camorra.  That  it  was  a  secret  society,  with  passwords, 
rites,  apprentices,  companions,  and  masters,  I  knew. 
But  in  some  trustworthy  books  I  had  seen  a  defense  of 
it ;  in  others  it  was  described  as  a  species  of  Italian 
Thuggee.  The  Government  had  put  it  down,  with  a 
high  hand,  several  years  previously,  disbanding  the 
lodges,  drafting  their  members  among  the  regiments  of 
Lombardy  and  Romagna.  With  these  consequences,  it 
appeared ! 

There  was  silence  in  the  room.  My  meditations 
grew  somber.  I  did  not  pin  my  faith  on  Tiberio's  fresh 
claim  to  royal  power,  any  more  than  I  had  given  in  to 
his  legend  of  a  royal  descent.  Frankly,  I  thought  him 
crazed,  but  still  dangerous.  Marat  was  probably  a 
lunatic,  but  of  the  homicidal  sort,  and  he  infected  a 
whole  people  with  his  madness. 

"What  relation  is  there,"  I  asked  at  length — it  might 
have  been  a  question  in  a  customs  examination — 
"between  your  Camorra  and  the  Mala  Vita?" 

Tiberio,  stung  by  the  indifference  with  which  I  had 


CHAP.  X.]  LORDS  OF  MISRULE  137 

heard  his  boasting,  did  not  answer  at  once.  Then  he 
leaned  across,  rapped  me  on  the  shoulder  and  said, 
"  Look  here,  you  English  go  astray  for  want  of  imagi- 
nation. You  walk  on  the  surface  of  things.  We 
Italians  are  not  only  subtle  but  violent,  a  combination 
which  you  will  never  understand.  We  have  had  our 
Machiavelli  in  the  same  age  with  Caesar  Borgia  and 
the  Malatesta.  I  admire  them  all." 

He  was  speaking  his  mind  now.  But  I  must  drive 
my  question  home. 

"  The  Mala  Vita  is  a  league  for  committing  murder. 
Is  that  your  platform?  "  I  inquired. 

He  answered  with  an  affectation  of  gaiety,  "We 
neither  approve  nor  disapprove  of  the  Mala  Vita;  how 
could  we?  Murder  is  only  a  means.  But  sometimes  a 
necessary  means.  Therefore  it  would  be  a  mistake  to 
discourage  enthusiasm.  You  see  I  speak  frankly. 
Nevertheless,  I  am  not  an  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain, 
that  loves  killing  for  killing's  sake.  Indeed,"  he  went 
on  with  a  horrid  grin,  "  I  don't  think  I  could  come  up 
to  the  last  of  our  condottieri — Napoleon,  you  know. 
Some  of  his  tastes  were  plainly  criminal — as  when  he 
had  half  a  dozen  soldiers  killed  in  a  skirmish,  just  to  let 
Madame  Chose,  his  innamorata,  see  what  it  was  like. 
I  really  could  n't  do  that,  now." 

"  Much  to  your  credit,"  I  answered  gravely ;  "  but 
you  were  observing  that  in  the  high  Roman  society 
there  are  Camorristi.  Could  one  get  to  know  them?" 

"  Certainly,  if  I  gave  you  an  introduction.  But  we 
have  left  poor  Tiberio  in  prison  at  Porto  Ferrajo !  And 
I  ought  to  be  telling  you  how,  thanks  to  the  influence 
of  a  high  functionary  and  the  Camorra,  he  was  released. 
Afterward,  the  dear  lad's  career  was  too  checkered  for 
a  brief  description.  Basta!  you  saw  him  hard  up,  al 
verde,  in  Leicester  Square;  now  you  see  him  in  the 
Palazzo  Mocenni." 

"  Dare  you  reveal  the  name  of  that  functionary  ?  " 


138  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

He  smiled.  "  To  you  I  dare.  He  is  Don  Camillo, 
eldest  son  of  the  Duke  of  Roccaforte — " 

I  finished  the  sentence  for  him  in  derisive  astonish- 
ment. "  And  son-in-law  of  Scanza,  the  Prime  Minister. 
Nay,  Signer  Tiberio,  that  beats  all." 

"  You  will  not  be  satisfied  without  a  proof!"  he  said. 
"Ebbene!  Join  me  here  in  evening  dress  the  second 
night  from  this  at  ten.  We  will  pay  Don  Camillo  a 
visit.  He  gives  a  great  entertainment;  you  shall  talk 
to  him  at  supper  in  his  own  house.  Will  that  satisfy 
you  ?  Now  we  suspend  our  session.  Sorry  you 
must  go." 

Grasping  my  fingers  and  murmuring  good  wishes, 
the  lord  of  the  Camorra  dismissed  me.  But  through 
the  gate  of  horn  or  the  gate  of  ivory  who  shall  say  ?  I 
walked  to  Finocchio's  in  a  trance.  The  little  man 
gave  me  one  searching  side-look,  and  read  his  lesson  in 
my  face.  He  will  never  mention  Tiberio  in  my  hear- 
ing if  he  can  help  it.  And  now  I  have  written  this 
account  of  our  interview,  to  guard  against  what  may 
happen. 


CHAPTER   XI 

TWO    NOCTURNES   IN    ROME 

THE  ivory  gate  by  which  dreams  pass  out  and  in! 
That  Virgilian  image  stayed  with  me.  How  much 
of  Tiberio's  cynical  narrative  could  I  trust?  He 
was  capable  of  monomania,  megalomania;  given  over, 
assuredly,  to  a  strong  delusion,  a  liar  and  the  victim  of 
lies.  My  British  instinct,  unseduced  by  his  fiction  of 
an  estate  left  him,  cool  in  the  presence  of  anarchist 
ideals,  would  still  demand  how  the  pauper  of  Leicester 
Square  came  to  be  the  fine  gentleman  in  his  dressing- 
gown  of  the  Palazzo  Mocenni.  Was  it  by  well-con- 
certed plots,  of  which  every  modern  capital  furnished 
examples  in  a  rising  average?  Did  fraud  lend  a  hand 
to  murder?  There  kept  running  in  my  head  two  hor- 
rible Italian  words — poisonous  rats  behind  the  mental 
tapestry;  one  was  "  1'accattatore,"  the  blackmailer; 
and  one  "  il  manutengolo,"  the  receiver  of  stolen  goods. 
Which  represented  Tiberio?  Or  did  both?  By  his 
own  confession  he  stood  on  the  edge  of  darkness ;  but 
it  was  more  than  likely  that  he  had  plunged  into  its 
hollow  depths,  where  revolution  turns  to  crime. 

His  frankness,  real  or  feigned,  was  making  me  its 
accomplice.  I  might  denounce  him  to  the  Government 
as  an  escaped  convict;  where  had  I  any  proofs?  Nay, 
the  Government  was  Don  Camillo — was  Scanza;  did 
the  go-between  of  the  Camorristi  play  a  second  part, 


140  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

and  act  the  spy?  Social  order,  in  these  days,  like  a 
conjurer's  tea-caddy,  had  many  false  bottoms.  Even 
in  London  we  had  grown  familiar  with  sham  conspir- 
acies got  up  by  the  police ;  among  my  acquaintance  I 
had  fallen  in  with  pied  ravens — monstrosities  in  black 
and  white — that  knew  how  to  croak  treason,  and  after- 
ward strut  gravely  as  Queen's  evidence  into  the  wit- 
ness-box. Which  of  all  these  was  Tiberio  Sforza? 

Denounce  him  I  could  not.  Turn  my  back  and  flee 
I  would  not.  The  doubtful  something  which  I  had 
gleaned  in  our  conversation  must  yield  more  light. 
Italians  had  long  been  past-masters  in  the  art  of  con- 
spiracy; from  the  Carbonari  to  the  Mano  Nera  of 
Girgenti  and  the  Fratellanza,  what  a  record  they  might 
show!  And  always,  not  a  doubt  of  it,  their  inevitable 
lapse  into  murder  justified  Tiberio's  doctrine,  borrowed 
from  Machiavelli,  to  make  all  sure  by  death.  I  had 
prepared  for  my  journey  to  Rome  by  reading  up  the 
native  literature  on  Mafia  and  Camorra,  in  which,  by 
hints  and  side-glances  rather  than  open  testimony,  the 
secrets  of  these  associations  were  whispered.  Sforza 
was  right ;  our  English  training  abhors  the  underhand. 
We  detest  sneaks,  spies,  surveillance,  the  whole  damna- 
ble system  which  sovereigns  and  subjects  practise  on 
the  Continent  of  watching  behind  doors  and  windows, 
and  stabbing  men  in  the  back.  It  was  my  unconquer- 
able dislike  to  sneaking  that  forbade,  even  at  this  peril- 
ous hour,  denunciation  on  my  part  of  the  anarchist  to 
the  authorities.  Let  them  do  their  filthy  work  them- 
selves. I  had  no  share  in  his  plots  and  plans.  But  I 
would  follow  them  out  until  I  saw  what  they  aimed  at. 
So  now  to  Don  Camillo's!  — 

"  One  word  in  your  ear,"  said  Sforza,  during  our 
drive  under  a  moonlit  sky  toward  the  Porta  Pia,  near 
which,  in  the  Via  Venti  Settembre,  within  a  stone's 


CHAP.  XL]  TWO  NOCTURNES  IN  ROME  141 

throw  of  the  British  Embassy,  Don  Camillo  held  his 
court.  "  I  delivered  an  allocution  to  you  on  Wednes- 
day in  my  character  of  wolf, '  una  lupa,  d'ogni  magrezza 
carca,'  sings  the  divine  poet — a  wolf  hungry  and  lean. 
But  now  we  are  on  our  way  to  the  assembly  of  foxes ; 
and  I  lay  my  wolfskin  aside.  In  my  friend's  house  " 
— with  a  diabolic  emphasis  on  "  friend  " — "  I  appear  as 
a  man  of  some  property,  retired  in  my  habits,  dilettante 
in  my  tastes,  more  concerned  with  pictures  than  with 
poignards — indeed,  I  have  no  concern  at  all  with  these 
latter,  as  you  know.  I  beg  you,  therefore,  to  act  up 
to  the  role  which  I  have  undertaken.  Camillo  is  slightly 
timid:  you  will  spare  his  nerves." 

"  All  I  know  of  you,  Signer  Tiberio,  is  what  I  saw 
in  your  visit  to  England,"  said  I.  "  If  it  pleases  you 
to  put  on  and  take  off  a  series  of  masks  in  Italy,  that 
is  your  look  out,  not  mine.  In  short,  I  neither  meddle 
nor  mar;  and  I  reserve  my  freedom  of  action." 

"  Oh,  you  reserve  your  freedom  of  action,"  he  said 
gleefully.  "How  British!  how  independent!  But 
see,  we  are  passing  the  Ministry  of  War,  upon  whose 
portals  I  should  like  to  inscribe  a  Sicilian  proverb, 
'  E  duci  lu  vinu,  ma  cahiu  duci  e  lu  sangu  di  li  Cris- 
tiani '  (Wine  is  sweet,  the  blood  of  the  people  is 
sweeter).  And  below  us  admire  that  colossal  edifice, 
nearly  as  big  as  St.  Peter's,  but  not  so  beautiful — it  is 
the  Ministry  of  Finance.  On  its  portal  I  would  write 
a  briefer  sentence,  '  Chirompe  paga.'  By  the  living 
God,  our  friends  are  paying  out  of  their  red  veins. 
But  here  is  Don  Camillo's." 

We  found  ourselves  in  a  line  of  carriages.  Tiberio 
leaped  out,  dismissed  his  own,  and  bade  me  follow  him 
to  a  portone  blazing  with  lights.  We  gave  our  names 
and  ascended  a  broad  staircase.  I  noticed  that  the 
floor  of  the  entrance  hall  was  slightly  uneven ;  some  of 
the  stairs  had  lurched  to  one  side  and  never  recovered 


142  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BooK  II. 

themselves ;  and  down  the  stuccoed  wall  I  traced  a  fine 
fissure,  undulating  like  a  serpent  which  had  crawled 
along  when  it  was  damp  and  recent.  I  pointed  out 
these  tokens  of  bad  building  to  Sforza.  His  eyes 
sparkled. 

"  The  palace  stands  on  thirty  feet  of  Roman  rub- 
bish," he  said  smiling,  "  heaped  up  since  the  day  when 
Hannibal  was  encamped  outside  the  Colline  Gate. 
Stands,  and  is  settling  down!  Our  good  Camillo 
should  take  heed  to  it.  Ma,  zucca!  There  he  is, 
and  the  Minister  Scanza — quel  grosso — with  him. 
We  are  in  luck's  way." 

"Now,"  said  I  to  myself,  "I  shall  make  certain 
whether  Tiberio  is  an  impostor."  No,  it  seemed  not. 
His  new  high-sounding  name  had  echoed  into  the 
saloon;  my  foreign  one,  though  less  difficult  than 
many,  had  passed  without  observation.  Don  Camillo, 
the  center  of  a  lively  group,  gave  an  almost  imper- 
ceptible start,  and  took  a  step  forward.  The  pair 
shook  hands  cordially;  I  was  presented  as  a  famous 
English  correspondent  of  that  illustrious  London  news- 
paper, the  "  Clarion,"  and  Don  Camillo  shook  hands 
instantly  with  me.  A  cold  hand,  smooth  and  some- 
what clammy ;  withdrawn  almost  at  once  to  make  a 
gesture  as  if  the  Prince  were  fatigued;  but  was  it  a 
signal  to  my  companion?  The  hand  was  passed  along 
the  face,  and  rested  a  moment  with  open  fingers  on  the 
chin.  I  could  not  observe  Tiberio,  who  was  standing 
a  little  behind  me ;  but  in  that  pose  of  languor  and 
contemplation — for  it  partook  of  both — Don  Camillo, 
with  his  worn  features,  thin  lips,  bald  forehead,  and 
false  white  teeth,  offered  an  amazing  contrast  to  his 
brother  Gaetano,  whose  looks  came  often  before  my 
memory.  Was  this  the  triumphant  Minister  of  State, 
his  breast  covered  with  decorations — the  Grand  Cross 
of  the  Annunziata  glittering  among  them?  I  judged 


CHAP.  XL]  TWO  NOCTURNES  IN  ROME  143 

him  broken  in  health,  embarrassed,  and  not  brave.     He 
opened  his  mouth :  it  was  to  discourse  platitudes. 

Not  less  remarkable,  it  seemed  to  me,  was  the  contrast 
between  the  palazzo  in  the  Via  Venti  Settembre,  with 
the  guests  whom  Camillo  was  entertaining,  and  Rocca- 
forte,  with  its  picturesque  throng  of  wild  but  amusing 
young  nobles.  Allow  for  my  jaundiced  vision,  which, 
I  confess,  never  has  been  able  to  see  grace  or  beauty 
in  the  Philistines  who  now  govern  the  world  and  set 
the  fashion.  But  I  could  not  be  mistaken  in  think- 
ing these  overloaded  rooms  pretentious  and  vulgar, 
crammed  with  Parisian  ware  such  as  one  buys  (or  the 
man  of  a  little  discernment  does  not  buy)  in  the  Rue 
de  Rivoli  or  Aux  Grands  Magasins  du  Louvre.  It  was 
not  unmitigated  prejudice  that  shrugged  its  shoulders 
at  the  aping  by  middle-class  Italian  women  of  the  least 
becoming  of  French  modes  et  robes.  Nor  did  my  hatred 
of  an  inartistic  bourgeoisie  deceive  me  into  supposing 
that  I  was  hearing  all  round  me  a  language  as  confused 
as  Babel — the  guttural  Piedmontese  accent  of  the  Alps 
expressing  itself  in  hybrid  phrases,  in  the  doubtful  Eng- 
lish of  the  Jockey  Club,  and  in  the  argot  of  thieves 
transplanted  from  the  Pare  Monceau,  where  it  has  made 
itself  a  home.  I  heard,  too,  the  jargon  of  journals 
which  dabble  in  finance,  and  which  write  every  European 
language  with  a  slight  suspicion  of  the  Ghetto  coloring 
their  style.  Foreigners  like  myself  were  in  plenty, 
wandering  through  the  rooms  or  gathered  round  the 
piano,  at  which — and  this,  too,  was  significant — all  the 
performers  delivered  their  quota  of  Transalpine  music. 
One  sang  "Adelaide,"  another  gave  selections  from 
"  Tristan,"  a  third  struck  out  for  us  the  saturnine  chords 
of  Grieg,  or  melted  into  moonlight  sentiment  with 
Schumann.  I  know  how  to  appreciate  our  sublime 
masters.  All  I  say  is  that  from  these  rooms  Mozart 
and  even  Boito  were  banished.  Where,  at  Don  Camillo's 


144  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

festival,  did  the  art,  the  language,  the  manners  of  Italy, 
find  their  place?  Nowhere.  "  Must  it  ever  be  so?  "  I 
asked,  with  real  sadness  in  my  tone  as  in  my  feeling,  of 
a  guest  who  stood  by  me.  "  Has  your  Italy  driven 
out  the  barbarians  only  to  copy  what  is  least  admirable 
in  them?" 

He  answered  with  equal  sadness,  "  I  have  almost 
ceased  to  hope  for  better  things.  Our  age  of  heroes — 
where  is  it?  Gone  with  Cavour,  Garibaldi,  and  the 
King.  We  have  fallen  upon  evil  days.  Lawyers  gov- 
ern us ;  politics  are  a  perpetual  intrigue ;  our  literature, 
like  our  painting  and  sculpture,  is  a  bad  copy  of  the 
French  Realism.  You  do  well  to  lament;  but  what 
shall  we  do,  the  last  of  a  people  who  have  created  two 
civilizations,  and  now  take  their  art  from  Paris  and 
their  science  from  Berlin?" 

"  My  dear  Professor  Rainaldi — you  here  ?  "  exclaimed 
Don  Camillo,  passing  at  the  moment.  "  Where  have 
you  been  this  age?  I  am  delighted.  But,  of  course," 
with  a  shade  of  melancholy  on  his  brow,  that  touched 
me  as  if  the  real  man  had  come  to  the  surface,  "  you 
do  not  appear  in  Rome  on  my  account.  What  learned 
person  are  you  expecting  here  to-night?" 

"  I  came  to  pay  my  respects  to  Don  Camillo.  But 
I  was  in  hopes  that  Signer  Girolami  would  be  among 
your  guests,"  said  Professor  Rainaldi,  looking  round  as 
he  spoke. 

The  Prince  moved  away. 

"  You,  then,  are  the  famous  Rainaldi,  whose  books 
we  read  in  England,"  I  said,  bowing  to  the  quiet  man 
with  the  clear  gray  eyes.  "  Pardon  me,  are  they  not 
literature  as  well  as  history?  We  should  not  despair 
of  this  beautiful  land  were  there  many  such  books." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  he  answered  in  English,  "  you 
encourage  me.  But  the  sky  is  full  of  clouds.  I  was 
Senator  of  the  Kingdom,  Minister  of  Education ;  I  have 


CHAP.  XI.]  TWO  NOCTURNES  IN  ROME  145 

given  it  up,  and  devote  myself  to  researches  in  our 
archives,  as  my  friend  Girolami  devotes  himself  to  the 
study  of  social  causes.  We  belong  to  the  past  or  the 
future.  What  can  we  make  of  the  present?  Our 
poverty  is  appalling;  our  institutions  are  exotics;  the 
Church  is  in  everlasting  feud  with  the  State ;  and — but, 
at  last,  you  will  hear  an  Italian  cantatrice!  Here  is 
Signora  Tarquinia!" 

Yes,  at  last,  and  I  was  enchanted.  While  the  music 
held  us,  there  was  no  more  talk.  Then  we  found  our- 
selves at  supper  in  a  large  dining-room ;  and  I,  whom 
Don  Camillo  treated  with  a  distinction  not  always  be- 
stowed on  journalists,  but  due,  I  suspect,  to  Sforza, 
might  now  pursue  my  studies  in  contrasts,  by  looking 
at  the  Principessa,  his  wife,  near  whom  I  sat,  and  listen- 
ing while  she  talked.  A  little  way  removed  from  her 
was  the  Signora  Tarquinia — large,  stout,  bright-eyed, 
and  good-tempered ;  with  a  voice  like  a  pealing  organ, 
and  the  most  dramatic  pair  of  hands,  as  full  of  tragedy 
or  comedy  as  her  own  repertoire.  But  the  contrast  I 
had  in  mind  was  not  between  the  actress  and  Donna 
Camilla ;  it  was  between  this  lady  and  her  sister-in-law 
at  Roccaforte,  the  charming  devote  Costanza.  The 
Prince's  wife  resembled  in  some  points  her  father,  quel 
grosso,  as  Tiberio  called  him.  At  our  table  he,  too, 
was  seated ;  but  he  said  nothing,  and  seemed  intent  on 
the  good  things  to  which  he  brought  a  young  man's 
appetite.  Signer  Scanza  was  robust,  florid,  aquiline, 
with  bushy  white  eyebrows  and  formidable  jaws.  His 
daughter  showed  the  same  bright  tints,  adding  to  them 
a  simper  which  disclosed  excellent  teeth  and  a  fatiguing 
absence  of  variety.  She  wore  many  rings,  twisted 
them  often  round  her  fingers,  was  always  making  sure 
that  she  sat  quite  straight,  and  never  asked  or  answered 
a  question  without  laughing.  But  her  laugh  had  no 
character;  it  might  have  sprung  out  of  a  phonograph. 


10 


146  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

I  acknowledge,  sincerely  but  impenitently,  that  I  hated 
Donna  Camilla  the  minute  she  began  to  speak. 

On  the  other  hand,  who  would  not  adore  the  Signora 
Tarquinia?  Gay  and  sprightly,  she  wore  a  very  big 
heart  on  her  sleeve.  While  the  two  women  talked, 
both  fast  and  loud,  I  had  no  trouble  in  listening  to  them 
and  answering  Don  Camillo  when  he  put  civil  inquiries 
about  Englishmen  he  had  known.  Ah  yes,  it  was,  said 
Tarquinia,  her  last  appearance  for  the  season.  Her 
doctors  had  put  some  queer  instrument  down  her  throat, 
menaced  her  with  a  total  loss  of  voice — "  you  would 
never  think  so,  cara  Principessa,  to  hear  me  now,  con- 
fess it" — and  she  must  go  into  retreat;  become  one  of 
the  "  sepolte  vive  " — an  order  of  cloistered  nuns  in  the 
Via  Magnanapoli.  And  whither  was  she  going  into 
retreat  ?  Oh,  first  to  Roccaforte !  That  dear  Costanza, 
her  young  friend  in  their  convent  days,  had  asked  her. 

"So,  Costanza  is  a  dear?"  laughed  the  Princess 
Camilla.  "  But  she  is  also  a  Sant'  Agnese,  a  lamb,  fit 
to  be  offered  in  January  with  the  other  lambs  in  the 
church  outside  Porta  Pia.  She  never  invites  us  to 
Roccaforte;  no,  indeed,  wicked  Freemasons  that  we 
are!" 

"  When  you  do  go  into  that  medieval  den,  Signora," 
growled  the  aquiline  Scanza,  looking  up  suddenly  from 
his  plate,  "  tell  the  young  man  who  guards  it — Don 
Gaetano — that  we  Freemasons,  as  my  daughter  says, 
have  our  eyes  upon  him.  He  and  his  Guelfs  are  rather 
too  zealous  lately,  with  their  meetings,  banners  in 
church,  and  what  not.  But  the  law  must  be  respected. 
Tell  him  that  from  me." 

The  actress,  instead  of  answering,  hummed  a  stave 
of  the  "  Marseillaise  "  under  her  breath. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  replied  Scanza,  his  growl  softening  to  a 
smile,  "  liberte,  liberte  cherie.  All  very  fine !  But  re- 
spect the  law." 


CHAP.  XL]  TWO  NOCTURNES  IN  ROME  147 

"  Apropos,  Signor  Principe,"  said  Tiberio,  turning 
to  Camillo,  "  perhaps  I  might  do  the  Premier's  errand 
if  the  Signora  is  coy.  I  am  no  politician,  you  are  aware 
of  that.  But  so  much  the  better.  Send  me  to  the 
castle.  I  have  long  wished  to  know  Don  Gaetano. 
And  '  blessed  are  the  peacemakers,'  says  Holy  Writ." 

These  words  struck  on  my  ear,  and  a  stream  of  ice 
ran  along  my  veins.  I  was  relieved  by  Camillo's  reply, 
given  with  extreme  courtesy.  "  My  influence  would 
not  avail,  I  fear,  to  open  the  castle  gates,  dear  sir.  It 
is  years  since  I  entered  them  myself." 

"  Regrettable,  indeed,"  cried  Tiberio ;  "  but  perhaps 
our  English  friend,  who  has  just  been  your  father's 
guest,  would  have  the  kindness  to  introduce  me." 

I  was  the  object  of  all  eyes.  "  You  have  been  stay- 
ing at  Roccaforte?"  said  Camillo  in  his  subdued  tones. 
"  I  envy  you.  Did  you  leave  my  father  well?" 

"  The  Duke  seems  in  more  robust  health  than  your- 
self, Prince,"  I  answered.  "  He  has  the  vigor  and 
steadiness  of  a  mountaineer." 

"Long  may  it  be  so!"  fervently  exclaimed  the 
Prince.  "  But  he  has  never  forgiven  me  the  share  I 
took  in  our  country's  regeneration.  And  Gaetano,  my 
half-brother,  who  cannot  remember  the  old  Papal  rule, 
is  violent  against  me." 

"  Never  mind,  Don  Camillo,"  said  the  Prime  Minister, 
"with  a  strong  Government  we  shall  put  down  these 
remains  of  barbarism.  The  nobles  who  will  not  be 
democrats  have  had  their  day.  Italy  requires  one  law, 
and  one  executive.  The  Center  is  beginning  to  under- 
stand that  much.  The  South  is  our  difficulty.  I  say 
it,  though  a  Sicilian.  In  the  South  is  our  Ireland, 
backward,  still  feudal,  too  ignorant  to  comprehend  the 
benefits  of  army,  schools,  taxation,  and  industry.  But 
we  know  how  to  deal  with  it.  We  have  cleared  out  the 
banditti.  We  shall  next  reform  feudalism." 


I48  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

"  But  give  me  a  chance  of  seeing  what  it  is  like," 
said  Tiberio,  "  before  it  disappears.  Come,  Signer 
Massiter,  I  depend  on  you  for  an  introduction  to  this 
medieval  castle." 

I  murmured  something  indistinct  and  looked  round 
for  an  escape.  The  actress  came  up  to  me.  "  Per- 
haps we  shall  meet  at  the  Rocca,"  she  said  with  her 
open  smile.  "You  worship  Donna  Costanza,  don't 
you?  We  all  do.  She  is  not  the  Sant'  Agnese  our 
hostess  calls  her;  much  more  like  Diana,  with  her  lofty 
brow  and  those  flashing  eyes.  What  will  be  her  des- 
tiny? She  is  too  rare  and  singular  for  marriage — as 
marriage  goes  in  the  world  now.  But  neither  ought 
she  to  lose  herself  among  the  sepolte  vive.  She  should 
be  a  Santa  Caterina  or  a  Vittoria  Colonna.  Good- 
night, and  a  rivederci!" 

Tiberio  proposed  that  we  should  walk  home.  The 
night  was  exquisite  and  almost  as  brilliant  as  day,  under 
a  fair  round  moon.  The  white  buildings  that  line  both 
sides  of  the  narrow  street  terminating  at  Monte  Cavallo 
had  now  something  of  the  aspect  which  gives  to  a 
Venetian  calle  its  peculiar  charm.  But  the  edifices 
were  too  irregular,  too  much  a  succession  of  barracks ; 
and  indeed  a  sentinel  was  pacing  up  and  down  at  inter- 
vals before  some  public  office  or  by  the  side  entrances 
of  the  Quirinal. 

Rome  does  not  keep  late  hours.  The  streets  were 
comparatively  deserted.  My  companion  talked  in 
overflowing  spirits.  "  You  perceive  that  I  am  not 
romancing,"  he  said.  "  I  can  meet  Prince  or  Premier 
on  their  own  ground.  However,  bear  this  in  mind: 
they  neither  of  them  know  me  as  you  do.  The  Prince 
— do  you  think  he  will  live  long?  a  frail  constitution,  it 
appears  to  me — the  Prince  some  thirty  years  ago  joined 
an  association  which  was  then  purely  political  and  mo- 
narchical, acting  in  Rome  on  behalf  of  the  Casa  Savoya. 


CHAP.  XL]  TWO  NOCTURNES  IN  ROME  149 

It  has  since  enlarged  its  platform.  But  it  has  not 
loosened  its  grip  on  Don  Camillo.  He  is  timid — an 
aspen  somewhat  middle-aged  and  very  tremulous. 
Scanza  is  quite  another  pair  of  sleeves — Sicilian, 
Mafioso,  a  conspirator  from  his  youth  up,  a  disciple 
of  Mazzini,  and  a  good  deal  besides.  Curious;  this 
country  is  governed  by  Piedmontese  soldiers  and 
Sicilian  brigands!  They  call  that  progress.  Oh, 
there  are  avvocati  besides!  I  don't  deny  it.  But 
they  have  to  bribe  the  brigands  as  well  as  pay  the 
soldiers.  By  the  by,  you  introduce  me  at  Roccaforte?  " 

I  made  no  answer.  While  Tiberio  pursued  his  mono- 
logue, which  I  was  not  in  the  humor  to  interrupt,  we 
had  come  to  the  open  space  where  Castor  and  Pollux 
are  standing  with  their  steeds.  The  jingle  of  the  tram- 
cars,  mostly  empty  but  never  silent,  filled  the  air.  On 
the  broad  steps  beneath  us  two  or  three  mendicants 
were  lying  in  tattered  cloaks.  The  moon  shed  its 
intensely  clear  rays  upon  the  palace  formerly  known 
as  the  Consulta,  now  the  Foreign  Office ;  it  shone  over 
the  roofs  of  the  Quirinal,  above  whose  great  front  en- 
trance we  could  read  distinctly  the  escutcheon  with  its 
writing,  "  Paulus  Quintus,  Pontifex  Maximus."  To 
our  left,  as  we  took  our  stand  by  the  horse-tamers, 
extended  in  solemn  brightness  the  panorama  of  the  city, 
away  over  the  Campus  Martius  and  as  far  as  the  Vati- 
can, where  the  colossal  dome  rose  up,  always  solitary, 
like  a  note  of  interrogation,  asking  how  long  these  lesser 
monuments  should  endure  beside  it. 

Tiberio  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  question.  He 
folded  his  arms,  threw  back  his  beautiful  sinister  face, 
and  gazed  long  in  a  species  of  trance  at  the  Royal 
Palace  asleep  under  the  moon.  I  stood  where  his  eyes 
betrayed  their  every  movement  to  me.  At  first  half- 
smiling,  his  features  gradually  grew  hard  and  sullen  ;  his 
looks  would  have  pierced  the  walls.  I  saw  the  blood 


ISO  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

leave  his  lips,  and  his  breathing  become  slightly  con- 
vulsive. "  As  God  is  above,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  this 
man  is  plotting  murder."  And,  impelled  by  some  ob- 
scure motive,  without  reflection,  I  took  him  roughly  by 
the  arm  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  Ma,  Tiberio,  tu 
mediti  un  omicidio! " — giving  expression  to  the  thought 
which  had  crossed  my  mind. 

He  started,  shook  me  off,  and  came  to  himself. 
"  Accidentaccio ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  God  strike  you  dead 
— what  did  you  say?" 

"  What  were  you  staring  at,  in  your  mood  of  Mac- 
beth ?  "  I  answered,  pulling  him  to  one  side.  "  Let  us 
get  away  from  those  agents  of  the  police :  they  are 
watching  us.  Do  you  fancy  they  admire  your  tragic 
posturings  at  this  time  of  night,  before  the  King's 
threshold?  Come,  let  us  walk."  And  I  turned  him 
toward  the  Via  Nazionale. 

"  But  you  said — you  said,"  he  stammered,  in  tones 
which  manifested  some  apprehension,  "  that  I  was  med- 
itating— never  say  that  again,"  he  whispered,  clench- 
ing his  teeth,  "  never,  as  you  value  your  life." 

"  You  are  moonstruck  in  all  this  brilliancy,"  I  said, 
laughing.  "Come,  where  shall  we  go?  Those  police 
keep  in  the  offing,  it  seems  to  me.  Why  did  you  stand 
where  every  one  could  see  your  antics?" 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure,"  answered  Sforza,  recovering  him- 
self and  speaking  very  loud,  "  I  think  your  marionetti 
most  ingenious.  But  you  must  play  Fra  Currado  just 
as  I  was  showing  you."  He  stopped,  folded  his  arms 
once  more,  and  gave  his  whole  attitude  a  burlesque 
appearance  which  I  could  not  sufficiently  admire.  The 
policemen  had  come  within  earshot.  They  turned  now 
and  paced  toward  the  Quirinal,  as  if  resuming  their 
beat.  Somehow,  I  could  have  wished  the  moon  were 
not  so  clear  just  then.  But  a  full  moon  has  always 


CHAP.  XL]  TWO  NOCTURNES  IN  ROME  151 

troubled  my  fancy;  perhaps  it  had  affected  Tiberio 
likewise. 

We  had  roamed  as  far  as  the  Banca  d' Italia,  where 
my  ill-fated  Street  of  the  Serpents  takes  its  beginning. 
On  catching  sight  of  the  name,  I  paused  and  was  for 
turning  back,  by  the  Torre  di  Milizie,  in  the  direction 
of  Trajan's  Forum;  but  Tiberio,  who  had  completely 
shaken  off  his  trance,  said,  in  those  persuasive  tones 
which  I  was  learning  to  dislike,  "  No,  no,  we  will  go 
down  this  way  to  the  Colosseum,  and  look  in  at  the 
Trattoria  Ranieri  as  we  pass." 

"The  Trattoria — what — ?"  I  cried  out.  It  was  my 
turn  to  feel  uncomfortable. 

Whereupon  Tiberio  laughed — a  dry,  short  laugh — 
and  repeated  the  words.  "  You  know  the  Ranieri," 
he  went  on,  "  per  Bacco,  you  are  known  there  too ! 
Make  a  long  story  short,  won't  you,  my  dear  assassin?  " 
— Oh,  with  what  relish  he  turned  the  word  under  his 
tongue !  — "  Virtue  can't  be  hid.  We  both  attended  the 
funeral,  didn't  we  ? — you  as  chief  mourner,  I  as  a  Frate 
di  Misericordia.  Poor  Renzaccio!" 

This  was  too  much.  I  dragged  him  back  from  the 
horrid  street,  and  moved  on  hastily,  holding  him  by  the 
wrist,  in  the  direction  I  had  first  chosen,  until  we  came 
to  the  church  of  SS.  Domenico  e  Sisto.  There  we 
halted  and  looked  one  another  in  the  face. 

"  So  you  knew  everything  when  you  passed  me  on 
the  steps  of  San  Romito  ?  "  I  said,  throwing  into  my 
words  a  savage  energy.  "  But  what  was  Renzaccio  to 
you,  that  you  should  be  wanting  at  this  hour  to  trepan 
me  at  Ranieri's?  You  think  me  such  an  idiot  as  to 
put  myself  into  that  wolf's  throat  again?  What  do 
you  mean?" 

He  had  allowed  me  to  pull  him  along  without  resist- 
ance, but  he  was  not  frightened,  hardly  excited.  "  We 


152  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

must  not  wander  away  from  the  Banca  d'ltalia,"  he  said 
calmly.  "  If  you  decline  to  enter  Ranieri's — for  which 
you  have  the  best  of  reasons — let  us  wait  up  here.  I 
expect  a  messenger."  And  with  that  he  retraced  his 
steps.  I  followed  him  reluctantly,  and  we  were  soon 
standing  outside  the  Bank  again. 

"Ouf!"  he  exclaimed,  shaking  himself  and  feeling 
his  lips,  "  we  have  talked  your  tongue  of  frogs  and 
crocodiles  this  hour.  It  has  made  my  mouth  sore. 
Still — to  finish  the  lesson — a  little  more  of  the  British 
idiom.  Yes,  caro  Signore,  when  you  saw  me  in  the 
white  domino,  and  I  you  in  a  costume  that  did  not 
altogether  fit  you,  I  was  acquainted  with  everything. 
But  not  till  then !  The  comrades  who  beheld  you  strike 
Renzo  had  described  to  me  an  Englishman — for  some 
heard  the  gendarmes  pronounce  your  name — but  your 
dress  and  appearance  were  not  English.  I  congratulate 
you  on  an  excellent  disguise.  Renzo,  you  should  be 
told,  was  rescued  from  the  carabinieri  within  half  an 
hour  after  his  arrest.  The  boys  did  their  work  to  per- 
fection. He  was  wounded  slightly  in  the  scuffle;  but 
had  your  cane  not  smashed  his  head  he  would  be  alive 
this  day.  When  he  was  seized  with  epilepsy — or  what- 
ever they  call  it — the  comrades  took  him  up  to  Rocca- 
forte,  and  laid  him  at  Nonna  Candia's  door.  They  told 
me  I  should  find  him  there,  as  I  certainly  did;  but  I 
was  not  expecting  to  see  the  lad  cold.  When,  during 
the  procession,  my  eye  fell  upon  an  Englishman,  bent 
and  sobbing,  on  the  church  steps,  while  the  corpse 
moved  up  toward  him,  the  truth  flashed  upon  me. 
And  the  Englishman — the  homicide — was  you,  Arden 
Massiter ! " 

"  What  if  it  was?  "  I  cried  furiously ;  "  how  does  that 
concern  you?" 

"How,  my  friend?  Renzaccio  and  I  had  dealings 
together.  He  was  one  of  ours,  from  the  first  days  of 


CHAP.  XL]  TWO  NOCTURNES  IN   ROME  153 

his  imprisonment  in  the  Isola  del  Giglio.  More  than 
that" — and  the  sullen  expression  which  had  startled 
me  upon  Monte  Cavallo  came  out  on  his  features — "  I 
had  great  hopes  of  training  Renzaccio.  Now  my  labor 
is  lost.  However,  you  will  make  it  good  by  unbolting 
the  gates  of  Roccaforte  to  me." 

"  Shall  I  make  it  good  to  you  ?  Not  in  that  way,  I 
swear.  You  don't  dream,"  I  went  on  with  boundless 
contempt,  "  that  /am  one  of  yours?  " 

He  laughed  outright.  "  But  I  do,"  he  said,  after  a 
pause ;  "  how  can  you  help  it  ?  " 


CHAPTER   XII 

DIS   MANIBUS 

MY  rage  was  too  violent  for  speech.  I  left  him  and 
paced  to  and  fro,  gnawing  my  heart  within  me, 
conscious  that  if  I  did  not  keep  down  the  rising  devil  I 
should  strike  him,  even  as  Renzaccio  had  been  struck, 
with  the  cane  I  had  in  my  hand,  now  quivering  like  a 
thing  that  felt  with  me  and  would  do  my  bidding.  This 
was  the  second  time  I  had  experienced  such  a  fit  of 
madness.  Tiberio  glanced  my  way,  knew  the  atmo- 
sphere to  be  thunder-laden,  and  posted  himself  a  few 
yards  off,  in  the  Via  dei  Serpenti.  After  a  consider- 
able interval  I  heard  him  exclaim,  "  Ah,  finalmente ! 
Behold  my  messenger!"  A  tall  young  man,  hardly 
more  than  a  youth,  came  running  breathlessly  up  to  us. 
His  hat  was  off;  I  recognized  him  at  a  glance.  It  was 
the  beautiful  Apollo  whose  life  I  had  saved — yes,  Car- 
luccio — his  curly,  locks  in  disorder,  his  eyes  starting,  his 
lips  apart.  He  was  panting  like  a  dog. 

"You  have  made  me  wait,"  said  Tiberio,  in  the  tone , 
of  Louis  Quatorze.  The  slender  young  god — a  slave 
now — absolutely  cringed.  "  He  was  late,  Maestro ;  I 
ran  all  the'way,"  said  he,  with  hands  almost  clasping  in 
a  silent  gesture.  "  He  is  alone  " — and  some  words 
passed,  the  meaning  of  which  I  could  not  make  out. 
They  appeared  to  satisfy  the  great  man,  whose  lips  no 
longer  tightened,  while  his  mellow  accents  bespoke  an 


CHAP.  XII.]  DIS  MANIBUS  155 

endeavor  to  efface  the  impression  left  by  our  late  col- 
loquy. "Then  I  will  bid  you  a  happy  night,  Signor," 
he  said  to  me,  uncovering.  "  Our  friend  here,  Car- 
luccio,  will  see  you  home  instead  of  my  humble  self." 
With  that  he  stepped  out  briskly,  drawing  his  cloak 
round  him,  as  though  intending  a  longish  promenade. 

Carluccio  waited,  not  uncertain — the  honeyed  words 
amounted  to  a  command.  But  his  fawn-like  eyes 
rested  on  me  beseechingly.  "  Come,"  I  said,  "  we  will 
walk  and  talk  a  little,  giovane  mio.  I  am  not  going 
home.  Can  you  tell  me  of  a  pleasant  excursion  at  this 
time  of  night?  " 

I  put  my  arm  in  his,  and  drew  him  toward  Trajan's 
Forum,  where  the  Emperor's  column  was  casting  a 
gigantic  shadow  across  the  square.  We  moved  on  in 
that  peculiarly  intense  silence  which  is  a  prelude  to 
momentous  speech.  At  length  Carluccio  said  faltering, 
"  It  is  true,  then,  Signor;  you  are  one  of  ours." 

The  second  time  I  had  heard  these  detestable  words ! 
"  No,  thank  God,  not  yet,"  I  cried.  The  young  man 
seemed  in  a  puzzle.  "  But  he  is  your  friend,"  said 
Carluccio.  "  You  came  to  meet  him  at  Ranieri's,  non 
e  vero?" 

I  could  not  deny  it.  "  Then  you  must  be  friends," 
he  concluded,  "  although  you  don't  know  our  signs  or 
passwords.  Ah,  perhaps  a  forestiere!  It  will  be 
that.  Besides,  the  maestro  is  very  secret.  Know  you 
where  he  is  hurrying  to-night?  I  would  show  you,  if 
you  had  not  fear." 

"Of  what  should  I  have  fear,  Carluccio?"  I  said, 
turning  on  him,  so  that  I  might  decipher  his  meaning  in 
his  looks.  "  The  man  is  not  a  real  friend  of  mine  ;  but 
you  ought  to  be."  This  adjuration  wrought  strangely 
upon  him.  "  Oh  I,  Signor  caro!  "  he  murmured,  "  but 
I  would  die  for  you !  Did  you  not  save  this  face  of 
mine  from  the  coltello  of  that  wild  beast  ?  But  yet,  if 


156  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

you  were  fond  of  the  maestro  and  told  him,  what  should 
I  do?" 

He  was  clinging,  in  a  childlike  way,  to  my  arm  with 
both  hands.  "  You  are  a  pazzarello — a  dear  idiot — 
Carluccio,"  said  I,  half  laughing,  but  feeling  the  rage  in 
my  throat  again  that  had  nearly  choked  me  outside  the 
Banca  d'ltalia.  "  No  language  will  express  my  hatred 
of  Tiberio.  Lead  the  way,  I  tell  you." 

"  Who  is  that — Tiberio?  "  asked  the  lad,  with  a  per- 
plexed air. 

"  Who  ?  Why  Tiberio  Sforza,  the  villain  we  have 
just  left  to  go  on  his  bad  business.  Is  not  that  his 
name  ?  " 

"  Might  be!  "  answered  Carluccio,  with  the  ingrained 
politeness  which  makes  his  countrymen  so  seductive — 
and  so  impossible.  "  We  call  him  only  Livorno.  But 
you  hate  him,  under  any  name.  And  what  does  a  poor 
lad  like  me  feel,  think  you,  for  a  demon  that  looks 
and  strikes  as  Livorno?  Yes,  strikes;  more — I  have 
seen  him  put  his  heel  on  a  man's  face,  knock  out  his 
teeth  with  his  boot.  That  is  the  maestro.  Do  I  love 
him?  Tell  the  crows  that." 

This  interchange  of  sentiments  had  been  proceeding 
while  we  crossed  over  by  the  piazza  of  the  Capitol,  and 
down  toward  the  Aventine — my  guide  taking  a  direc- 
tion which  he  had  selected  for  reasons  best  known  to 
himself.  The  steady  moonlight  showed  us  ancient, 
dilapidated  buildings — the  singular  arch  of  Janus  with 
its  four  gateways,  the  brick  campanile  and  columned 
portico  of  Santa  Maria  in  Cosmedin,  the  round  temple 
by  the  Tiber,  dedicated  to  some  unknown  god  or  god- 
dess, which  has  the  appearance  of  a  classic  wedding- 
cake,  with  its  quaint  roof  of  brown  tiles.  Then  we 
moved  on  again  at  a  rapid  pace,  and  we  were  out  in 
the  vineyards  that  lie  behind  the  immense  Baths  of 
Caracalla.  There  !was  abundance  of  shade  when  we 


CHAP.  XII.]  DIS  MANIBUS  157 

approached  these  piles  of  lonely  and  unkempt  ruins, 
which  in  their  sleep  of  death  kept  an  air  so  forbidding. 
Carluccio  pulled  up  now,  as  though  uncertain.  "  You 
are  not  afraid  ?  "  he  whispered.  "  If  you  are  we  can  go 
back.  Not?  Very  well.  Now  it  is  across  the  road. 
Quick,  we  must  not  be  seen.  Ah,  into  those  bushes! 
And  silence!  For  your  life,  silence!  " 

Creeping  on  hands  and  knees,  taking  advantage  of 
every  hollow  in  the  crumbling,  grass-grown  soil,  and 
blessing  the  streaks  of  malarious  mist  that  floated 
among  the  vineyards,  we  advanced  so  as  to  create  no 
alarm  except  to  some  sleeping  bird  that  now  and  then 
rose  with  a  flutter.  Even  these  slight  incidents  de- 
tained us.  Carluccio  grew  visibly  impatient.  But  now 
the  moon  was  setting;  a  grayer  and  gloomier  light 
came  over  the  slumbering  fields.  We  crept  on  farther, 
behind  dense  masses  of  brickwork,  upon  which  time 
had  planted  a  miniature  forest,  through  the  green 
labyrinth  of  whose  branches  we  thrust  on  as  carefully 
as  if  we  were  treading  in  a  rose-garden.  My  comrade 
stopped  frequently ;  but  in  the  stillness  we  could  hear 
no  movement.  More  than  once  he  put  his  finger  to 
his  lips.  I  nodded  assent;  he  might  depend  on  me. 
At  a  certain  point  he  pulled  my  arm  gently  forward, 
holding  his  breath,  and  motioned  me  into  a  position  be- 
hind him.  In  the  brickwork  there  was  a  rent  of  no 
great  magnitude,  concealed  by  the  branches,  yet  allow- 
ing a  narrow  glimpse  into  the  interior  of  the  ruin.  I 
could  look  without  being  detected  at  the  curious  sight 
within. 

I  called  the  place  a  ruin.  But  though  its  walls  had 
lost  many  yards,  here  and  there,  of  brick  or  travertine, 
it  still  kept  its  lofty  roof;  there  was  a  staircase  inside 
all  but  perfect,  nearly  opposite  us,  and  a  stout  column 
in  the  center  supported  the  square  edifice.  More  than 
half  of  it  was  sunk  in  the  ground  beneath  the  accumu- 


158  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

lated  debris  of  centuries.  But  as  I  viewed  it  with  the 
moonlight  making  checkers  on  the  floor,  and  the  gray- 
ish-white walls  exhibiting  tier  upon  tier  of  loculi  or 
pigeonholes,  many  of  which  held  dusty  patenae,  some- 
what resembling  fruit-plates,  I  could  have  fancied  my- 
self in  a  museum.  Such,  in  truth,  it  was;  but  a 
museum  of  the  dead,  where  literal  ashes,  taken  from  the 
funeral  pyre,  had  been  stowed  away  in  classic  urns, 
with  epitaphs,  often  consisting  of  the  name  only,  and 
now  for  the  most  part  effaced,  to  indicate  the  noble 
Roman  family,  whose  slaves  or  freedmen  these  tenants 
of  the  shelves  had  been.  It  was  an  immense  colum- 
barium, or  dove-cote,  one  of  several  which  stood  in 
close  neighborhood  among  the  vines  and  fig-trees  skirt- 
ing the  road  to  the  Porta  San  Sebastiano. 

All  that  I  took  in  at  a  glance,  the  moon  serving  yet 
to  enlighten  this  underground  hall  of  burial.  But  into 
one  corner  I  could  peer  more  distinctly,  for  a  rude 
earthen  lamp  was  burning  there,  of  the  kind  which 
abounds  at  Pompeii,  and  in  the  circle  of  its  illumination 
stood  a  couple  of  men,  cloaked  and  hatted,  so  bent  upon 
their  own  doings  that  they  never  once  looked  up  from 
the  loculus,  or  sideboard,  on  which  one  was  laying  out 
papers  and  the  other  counting  them  carefully.  My 
guide's  hold  became  a  grip.  He,  too,  could  see  and  be 
astonished. 

The  cloaked  person  smoothing  out,  with  visible  re- 
luctance, his  small  thin  papers  on  the  funeral  slab,  I 
had  never  beheld.  The  other,  as  I  expected,  was 
Tiberio.  They  spoke  hardly  at  all ;  the  operation  went 
forward  as  by  clockwork,  save  only  that  the  wheels  of 
the  clock  seemed  rusty,  and  gave  an  occasional  creak 
or  jerk,  while  the  papers  mounted  into  heaps.  I  had 
plenty  of  leisure  to  scan  the  countenance,  and  form  my 
judgment  of  the  character,  of  Sforza's  vis-a-vis.  There 
was  little  fear  that  we  outside  should  be  detected. 


CHAP.  XII.]  DIS   MANIBUS  159 

Certain  friendly  owls  occupied  the  topmost  ledges  of 
the  columbarium,  and  now,  troubled  by  the  moon  or 
the  lamp,  feeble  as  they  were  becoming,  they  flew  wildly 
about,  making  a  welcome  diversion.  Carluccio,  em- 
boldened, put  a  hand  before  his  mouth  and  whispered 
in  my  ear,  "  Santa  Fiora!" 

I  made  the  motion  with  my  lips  which  would  have 
articulated  "Brigand?"  The  answer  was  plain  in  his 
eyes. 

Santa  Fiora  did  not  correspond  to  his  sanctified  name. 
If  a  flower  at  all,  he  was  a  flower  of  evil,  wickedness 
stamping  itself  legibly  on  every  one  of  his  petals,  as  the 
hyacinth  bore  a  lament  for  beauty  on  its  tender  leaves. 
Thin,  wiry,  and  willowy,  the  apparition  would  have 
served  well  instead  of  the  painted  snake  which  Romans 
set  up  to  warn  intruders  away  from  tombs  and  sacred 
inclosures.  His  long,  lean  jaws  had  a  venomous  snap 
in  them;  his  distorted  nose  and  a  squinting  eye  gave 
one  the  impression  of  some  unsightly  fowl  that  had  met 
with  an  accident ;  his  forehead,  of  which  he  had  a  good 
deal,  went  up  to  a  narrow  crown,  resembling  a  sugar- 
loaf;  and  on  neck  and  shoulders  fell  ringletted  black 
hair,  which  finished  off  the  illusion  of  a  human  serpent. 
Over  against  him  Tiberio  was  fascinating,  in  spite  of  his 
fixed  pallor.  This  malignant  weed  struck  one  as  un- 
clean— a  toadstool,  or  other  slimy  fungus,  that  dare  not 
be  touched,  impregnable  in  its  pollution.  The  thing  did 
not  speak  much,  but  occasionally  it  winced  or  frowned, 
as  smitten  with  sudden  anguish.  Still  it  laid  out  of 
long  fingers  the  piles  of  notes ;  evidently  money  was 
changing  hands.  And  still  Tiberio  counted,  cool  and 
imperturbable. 

A  scene  like  that  which  we  were  contemplating,  if  it 
excites  the  nerves,  has  also  in  it  a  power  to  stir  the 
imagination  ;  the  spectator  may  be  conscious  of  a  vision 
within,  while  losing  not  a  movement  of  the  actors  be- 


160  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

fore  his  eyes.  To  me,  standing  silent  there,  came  the 
vivid  reflection  of  a  world  all  dust  and  shadow — pulvis 
et  umbra  sumus — fallen  so  low  from  its  golden  glories. 
Rome  Imperial,  that  built  magnificently  even  for  its 
dead  slaves  ;  built  on  the  royal  Appian  Way,  nor  spared 
its  marble  entablatures,  its  delicate  paintings,  remnants 
of  which  I  could  trace  under  the  setting  moon,  its 
yearly  returning  festivals  and  libations,  with  flowers 
laid  on  tombs,  and  all  the  graceful  homage  which  it 
paid  to  phantoms,  feared,  yet  still  beloved — was  it  come 
to  this  ?  Here,  in  this  place  of  the  Manes,  inviolate  and 
holy,  did  wretches  steeped  in  murder  balance  their  ac- 
counts, exchanging  blood-money;  and  only  the  owl 
shrieked,  no  shape  arose  from  the  under- world  to  scourge 
them  hence  with  scorpions,  or  terrify  them  with 
apparitions  into  madness.  An  impotent,  dead,  forgotten 
universe,  over  the  decaying  heaps  of  which  this  putres- 
cence crawled  and  multiplied! 

My  vision  did  not  hinder  me  from  remarking  that  the 
action  of  the  scene  had  paused  abruptly.  Santa  Fiora 
counted  no  more  notes  on  the  slab ;  Tiberio  pointed 
down  as  if  requiring  a  larger  tribute.  Their  voices 
rose ;  they  were  in  hot  dispute  over  the  business.  But 
they  spat  out  at  one  another  a  jargon,  brief  and  horri- 
ble, which  to  me  was  an  unknown  tongue.  The  human 
serpent  hissed;  the  tiger  answered  with  formidable 
movements  and  a  low  and  thunderous  roar.  From 
thieves'  slang  they  broke  into  sentences  of  Italian.  I 
heard  a  quick  repartee  of  demand  and  refusal. 

"Why  no  more  to  you?"  whistled  Santa  Fiora  in  a 
cracked  tenor.  "  I  pay  down  forty  thousand  lire  out  of 
sixty  we  got,  and  your  palm  itches.  Ma,  barone  " — 
which  is,  being  interpreted,  "Look  here,  my  lord!" — 
"  you  will  leave  the  boys  without  a  baiocco.  It  cannot 
be,  I  tell  you."  His  hand  clutched  the  remaining 
notes. 


CHAP.  XII.]  DIS  MANIBUS  161 

"  Five  thousand  more,  Santa  Fiora,"  said  Tiberio, 
not  heeding  the  argument,  "  then  I  take  myself  off. 
The  boys  are  doing  well.  They  know  it  is  for  the 
cause  they  are  laying  up  this  money.  What  do  I 
spend  on  my  own  amusement?  Why,  not  enough  to 
buy  sweet  parsley." 

"Managgia!"  whined  the  human  serpent,  "Devil 
be  good  to  me!  A  wise  man  does  not  flay  his  own 
skin.  Leave  the  bees  a  little  honey.  What  would  you 
have  got  by  the  fat  old  borgese,  had  our  piciotti,  our 
bravoni,  not  thrown  a  rope  round  his  horns  ?  " 

"Eh,  blood  of  San  Pantaleone!"  answered  Tiberio 
with  his  gay  and  facetious  accent,  "  and  when  would 
the  piciotti  have  caught  him,  if  some  one  else  had  not 
watched  where  he  was  feeding?  Quick,  the  five  thou- 
sand! Remember,  it  is  the  cause." 

"Oh,  the  cause,  the  cause,  Livorno  mio!  What 
care  I  for  la  politica?  I  love  the  good  old  trade.  Did 
Gasparone  meddle  with  State  affairs?  Yet  who  like 
Gasparone  ?  Send  us  plenty  on  the  roads  that  we  can 
skin,  and  let  politics  go  to  the  great  devil!" 

"The  five  thousand!"  repeated  Tiberio.  "See,  the 
moon  is  down;  why  do  we  stand  prating?  Eh,  mio 
cuore,  know  you  not  the  house  dog  must  be  fed  ?  Feed 
me — if  not — " 

This  sudden  aposiopesis,  or  rhetorical  pause,  seemed 
to  have  in  it  the  weight  of  a  cavalry  charge.  Santa 
Fiora  groaned  like  a  man  whose  throat  is  getting  cut; 
and  the  reckoning  began  again.  Carluccio,  motionless 
and  attentive  hitherto,  signed  that  we  must  creep  fur- 
ther away,  which  we  did  with  infinite  precautions. 
There  was  a  choking  sense  of  malaria  in  my  mouth,  a 
nausea  that  I  could  hardly  keep  down.  Our  clothes 
were  wet  with  the  night-dews,  our  limbs  benumbed  and 
heavy.  The  sky  was  opening  out  in  small  gleams  of 

dawn,   spectral  above   this  melancholy  region,  where 

11 


162  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BooK  II. 

masses  of  irregular  and  fantastic  outline  began  to  appear 
more  solidly  through  the  accursed  air.  We  crouched 
and  waited.  In  half  an  hour  we  saw  leaping  out  of 
the  ruined  columbarium,  on  the  side  nearest  us,  Santa 
Fiora,  alone.  He  seemed  to  carry  no  weapon,  but  as 
he  strode  on  within  a  yard  of  our  hiding-place,  I  could 
see  a  brace  of  pistols  showing  their  noses  from  under 
his  dark-blue  vest.  He  kept  a  sharp  lookout  in  front, 
and  soon  vanished  in  the  direction  of  Cecila  Metella's 
round  tomb.  "  Where  does  he  prowl  mostly  ?  "  I  in- 
quired of  Carluccio.  To  which  the  lad  answered, 
"  Anywhere  between  Rome  and  the  Montagna  del 
Mattese," — above  Cassino — "but  when  there  is  no- 
thing doing,  the  lads  stanno  a  casa ;  they  wait  till  they 
get  a  signal  from  the  capobanda.  It  is  not  as  in  the 
old  days,  when  once  a  brigand  always  a  brigand. 
Then  they  lived  in  the  open  and  enjoyed  themselves. 
Now  they  must  expect  the  manutengolo  to  send  them 
business." 

"  And  Tiberio — Livorno,  as  you  call  him — is  the 
manutengolo?" 

"But  surely!  who  else?  Without  him  Santa  Fiora 
could  do  no  stroke.  He  says  true.  Have  you  seen 
how  we  catch  birds  with  a  looking-glass  and  a  net,  in 
the  fields?  Livorno  is  the  man  that  holds  glass  and 
net.  So  he  takes  the  fat  breasts  of  the  birds,  and  we 
eat  their  thin  legs.  Ma  pazienza!  Will  he  always 
have  the  breasts?  " 

I  began  to  share  in  Carluccio's  sentiments  of  revolt ; 
dimly  there  flitted  through  my  fever-haunted  brain 
some  project  of  taking  into  our  confidence  the  hideous 
Santa  Fiora,  and  getting  him  to  betray  the  betrayer. 
So  soon  does  one  sicken  with  the  plague  of  treachery 
in  an  atmosphere  charged  with  it.  "  But  is  there  no 
pursuit  of  these  gentlemen  by  the  military  ?  "  I  asked. 


CHAP.  XII.]  DIS  MANIBUS  163 

"  We  strangers  are  always  assured  that  brigandage  is 
dead  with  the  old  governments." 

"  It  is  dead  and  not  dead,"  answered  my  companion ; 
"  but  what  happens  is  this :  Livorno  fixes  on  a  rich 
man,  finds  out  something  bad  against  him — there  is 
always  a  crime  or  a  shame  in  the  rich  man's  big  sack- 
then  draws  him  into  an  appointment  outside  the  city. 
He  is  seized,  carried  into  the  mountains,  held  to  ransom, 
but  he  must  get  the  money  without  making  a  chiasso, 
or  ringing  the  church  bells.  If  he  says  no,  his  crime 
walks  to  the  front — he  is  done.  He  never  says  no;  he 
always  gets  the  money  for  us.  After  it  is  paid,  he  re- 
turns a  casa  sua,  tells  them  he  was  ill,  on  distant  busi- 
ness, carding  and  combing — what  you  please !  So  our 
lads  take  only  the  wicked — and  why  not?  We  must 
save  the  mouth  for  the  figs ! " 

Thus  Carluccio,  with  his  Robin  Hood  philosophy. 
But  during  his  artless  talk,  we  had  observed  Tiberio 
crossing  the  public  road  and  disappearing  from  view 
over  the  high  walls  which  surround  the  Baths  of  Cara- 
calla.  It  was  time  to  separate.  My  resolution  had 
grown  to  a  head.  "  Come  and  see  me  at  Roccaforte," 
I  charged  the  young  brigand,  "  whither  I  shall  proceed 
this  very  day.  I  will  but  return  to  Rome  for  my  bag- 
gage. With  your  villainous  chief  I  will  never  have 
dealings  from  henceforth.  As  soon  as  I  have  taken 
farewell  of  the  Duke  Sorelli,  I  will  set  out  on  my  travels 
to  other  parts.  But  I  should  like  to  have  some  further 
conversation  with  you." 

"  Bene,  Signore,  if  I  can,  I  will.  You  do  as  a  wise 
man  to  go.  Yet  I  must  give  word  to  Livorno  that  you 
visit  Roccaforte.  I  am  the  bloodhound  on  your  trail," 
said  Carluccio,  an  uneasy,  half-terrified  smile  lighting  up 
his  innocent  features.  "  Povero  me !  You  pardon  me  ? 
What  can  I  do  ?  " 


164  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BooK  II. 

"  Tell  him,  then.  I  shall  be  gone  long  before  the 
month  is  out.  In  that  space  he  can  do  me  no  mis- 
chief." 

So  I  concluded ;  and  so  we  went  our  ways.  I  would 
not  retreat  in  disorder.  Still  I  insisted  that  it  should  be 
with  drums  beating  and  colors  flying.  But  an  uneasy 
feeling  remained,  which  I  can  only  compare  to  that  of 
a  man,  uncertain  whether  he  shall  get  away  from  the 
room  where  he  is  shut  in,  yet  lingering  spellbound  until 
he  hears  the  key  turn  in  the  lock,  the  bolt  shot  irrevo- 
cably from  outside. 

When,  after  many  days,  I  could  resume  this  journal, 
the  key  was  turned. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

MY   CONFESSION 

I  AM  sending  what  I  have  written  hitherto  of  Ti- 
berio  Sforza,  where  it  yet  may  avail  to  save — or 
else  to  bring  him  down  with  his  victims.  So  I  put 
these  scattered  sheets  in  order,  and  tell  the  tale  right 
on  from  my  thrice-unhappy  resolution  to  see  Roccaforte 
once  more ;  yes,  and  its  white  angel  too ;  for  I  recog- 
nize the  charm  that  drew  me  mightily,  deep  down  in 
my  heart.  I  throw  on  paper  this  record  of  all  that 
befell,  then  seal  it  and  send  it  away.  Death  hangs  over 
the  House  of  Sorelli.  I  write  while  the  moments  rush, 
their  wings  audible  in  my  hearing.  My  pulse  is  on  fire ; 
a  sudden  vibration  takes  the  air;  a  cloud  falls  between 
me  and  the  page  I  am  blackening.  In  forty-eight 
hours  I  go  on  the  forlorn  hope.  To  return,  how? 
Dead,  shattered  in  pieces,  or  saving  and  saved?  This 
shall  be  my  witness  that  I  was  innocent. 

Among  these  disconnected  fragments  that  I  stitch 
swiftly  together,  as  the  cobbler  in  the  Arabian  tale 
stitched  the  four  quarters  of  Cassim  the  unlucky,  I 
light  upon  a  description  of  my  first  journeyings  with 
Gaetano.  We  had  met  again  like  brothers.  For  he, 
with  his  large  fair  sense  of  things,  was  more  Greek  than 
modern,  capable  of  heroic  comradeship,  awakening 
April  in  the  heart. 

This  I  say  when  all  is  over — when  such  a  tide  of 

165 


166  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BooK  II. 

passion  has  rolled  between.  To  my  story.  We  met, 
our  eyes  told  how  delightedly ;  we  threw  wide  the 
doors  of  conversation;  we  exchanged  philosophies,  or 
rather,  it  appeared  to  me  that  Gaetano,  pitying  the 
wasted  multitudes,  had  yet  in  his  aspirations  some 
glamor  of  the  romantic  Middle  Age;  he  would  raise 
them  that  were  down  by  a  new  and  better  feudalism, 
in  which  the  glorious  old  houses  of  Italy  should  be 
captains  and  leaders  again.  He  was  drunk  with  the 
pride  of  history.  But  I,  though  belonging  to  a  lower 
class,  had  once,  at  Oxford,  been  caught  in  the  same 
delusion ;  I  had  gone  through  it,  and  behold,  it  was  a 
dream.  In  his  vision  there  was  banqueting  at  festal 
boards,  and  the  wine  ran ;  not  so  in  the  gray  day  of 
realities.  To  my  hardier  view,  which  I  shared  with 
the  wisest  on  both  sides, — with  the  black  troop  that 
refused  to  advance  and  the  crimson  that  made  ready 
for  battle — the  feudal  system  lay  buried  beyond  hope 
of  resurrection.  Still,  I  did  not  fling  back  the  cup  that 
Gaetano  held  out  to  me ;  how  could  I  be  so  unmannerly, 
and  toward  him?  But,  setting  it  down  untasted,  I 
proposed  that  we  should  travel;  were  it  only  a  few 
miles  in  the  valley  of  the  Sacco,  over  his  father's  lands, 
or  up  into  the  Sabine  Hills,  and  on  the  edge  of  the 
Roman  Campagna,  that  I  might  learn  how  the  people 
existed,  and  whether  any  change  could  be  wrought  by 
the  nobles -themselves. 

We  rode  up  and  down  some  ten  days.  The  wild 
mountains,  even  in  the  lap  of  winter,  kept  their  lovely 
green  forests;  at  a  distance  many  a  village,  high 
perched,  or  nestling  under  woods,  with  its  melodious 
name,  made  an  instantaneous  picture;  but  when  we 
climbed  up  thither,  the  enchantment  was  gone.  Houses 
vile  and  mean,  windows  without  glass,  floors  of  polluted 
earth,  chimneys  yawning  to  the  sky,  with  a  few  embers 
gasping  out  their  last  breath,  And  men,  women,  chil- 


CHAP.  XIII.]  MY  CONFESSION  167 

dren,  specters  in  their  rags  or  their  nakedness — hungry, 
chill,  fever-bitten,  listless,  dying  by  slow  famine,  which 
seemed  to  work  upon  them  as  it  were  opium,  dulling 
their  five  wits.  At  Canterano,  a  village  built  of  stone, 
not  far  from  Subiaco,  we  stopped  one  forenoon  to 
lunch  under  a  smoky  roof,  in  a  hovel  fit  for  cave- 
dwellers.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  cry  of  dismay  that 
broke  out,  when  I  threw  to  one  of  the  dogs  behind  us 
a  fragment  of  the  tasteless  polenta,  which  neither 
Gaetano  nor  I  could  get  down. 

"  Ah,  vedi,  Signer  buono,"  exclaimed  with  tears  a 
haggard  creature,  whose  hair  fell  about  her  in  disorder, 
"  Vedi,  la  prego,"  and  she  ran  with  outstretched  hand 
to  intercept  the  morsel,  "  you  give  the  dogs  our  bread, 
but  we  have  none  for  ourselves.  Why  so  cruel?" 

I  did  not  mean  to  be  cruel ;  it  was  want  of  reflection, 
and  a  sudden  disgust  at  the  sight  of  food  so  loathly. 
When,  to  make  amends,  I  gave  the  poor  creature  a  one 
lira  note,  she  fell  on  her  knees  and  kissed  it  repeatedly ; 
no  saint's  relic  could  have  called  forth  a  more  lively 
devotion.  No,  I  never  shall  lose  the  memory  of 
Canterano.  There  was  a  sprinkling  of  snow  on  the 
hills ;  the  day  was  keen  with  tramontana,  and  the  lights 
clear  as  in  an  icy  landscape.  Arid  within  these  massive 
hovels,  or  on  the  rugged  ascent  of  the  steep  street,  lay 
Hunger  and  Fever  clinging  in  a  close  embrace,  their 
gaunt  figures  emblematic  of  the  country  that  stretched 
before  us  in  desolation  unspeakable,  away  to  the  gates 
of  Rome. 

"  You  need  not  be  so  indignant  with  the  great  land- 
owners of  the  present  day,"  said  Hagedorn  to  me,  on 
our  return,  as  I  waxed  eloquent  in  my  denunciations. 
"  I  admit  all  you  say,  and  more.  Had  you  gone 
farther  up  the  mountains,  as  I  have  done  any  time 
these  thirty  years,  or  down  toward  Foggia,  or  as  far  as 


168  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BooK  II. 

the  grand  hill  scenery  of  Aspromonte,  you,  Signer 
Arden,  would  have  no  speech  left  in  you.  Everywhere 
it  is  the  same  story.  The  people  are  gangs  of  slaves, 
driven  to  work  by  an  overseer  who  is  the  right  hand  of 
the  middleman,  himself  the  screw  of  the  absentee  or 
indolent  landlord.  You  English  would  not  lodge  your 
swine — hardly,  indeed,  your  lowest  class  of  peasants, 
treated  often  worse  than  swine,  as  I  have  myself  noticed 
— in  the  capanne,  the  wretched  huts,  where  one  half  of 
the  Italian  nation  finds  its  home." 

"What  then?"  I  broke  in,  "is  it  unchangeable?" 

"Do  you  think  it  began  yesterday?"  he  answered. 
"  It  is  as  old  as  the  hills.  These  bond-slaves  are  de- 
scendants of  robber-tribes,  Marsians,  Volscians,  Sam- 
nites,  who  shared  the  booty,  at  first,  with  their  chiefs, 
but  were  insensibly  tamed  and  brought  low,  until  the 
last  spark  of  heroism  in  them — I  mean  brigandage — 
is  on  the  point  of  expiring.  I  am  aware  that  our  be- 
loved Gaetano  wants  to  make  them  right  good  soldiers 
again,  feed  them  up,  and  lead  them  into  battle.  A  la 
bonne  heure!  Let  him  try.  The  philosopher,  like 
myself,  will  get  them  to  exchange  gold  for  paper,  by 
selling  to  him  Etruscan  ornaments  such  as  these.  Look 
at  them!  You  won't?  Well,  I  have  always  declared 
that  social  reformers  will  ruin  art  and  sacrifice  esthetics 
to  their  impossible  economy." 

Hagedorn,  therefore,  was  at  the  castle,  laden  with 
spoils,  I  do  not  say  stolen,  but  transferred  reluctantly 
to  him  by  peasant  women,  who  sold  their  last  heirlooms 
with  more  grief  than  some  fine  ladies  feel  on  making 
merchandise  of  their  virtue.  The  Marchese  di  Lucera 
was  expected.  And  beyond  three  or  four  days,  how- 
ever I  might  linger  out  the  time,  my  departure  could 
not  be  put  off. 

Could  it  not?  A  certain  morning  broke,  destined 
to  fulfil  the  Lucretian  lines  which  tell  us  that  every  day 


CHAP.  XIII.]  MY  CONFESSION  169 

brings  to  some  one  its  killing  sorrow.  I  had  gone  out, 
along  by  the  cypresses  not  far  from  which  Renzo  Fava 
lay  in  his  long  home.  The  hill  descended  by  broad 
lapses  of  pasture,  fringed  with  chestnuts,  into  the  ravines 
and  valleys  that  went  rolling  forward  till  the  plain  of 
the  Sacco  divided  them  from  other  hills  and  woods. 
So  balmy  an  air  touched  one's  forehead  that  May  itself 
seemed  to  be  roaming  through  the  land ;  a  screen  of 
light  silvery  clouds  hid  the  sun,  curiously  veined  in 
places  with  sapphire  and  burnished  gold.  I  was  not 
unhappy,  though  still  warm  with  anger  and  compassion 
at  all  I  had  been  reviewing  of  the  world's  intolerable 
disease.  It  is  possible  that  I  felt  more  keenly  than  I 
knew.  At  all  events,  as  I  moved  across  the  hill,  I 
chanced  to  observe  a  couple  of  lads  seated  on  the 
ground  together,  watching  their  herds  of  goats,  and 
laughing  and  talking  with  the  instinctive  mimicry  that 
gives  to  children's  ways  in  these  countries  an  appear- 
ance at  once  lively  and  theatrical,  as  though  marionetti 
of  a  larger  growth.  I  had  seen  the  lads  before.  Now 
I  went  close  up  to  them  and  asked  their  names.  It 
took  some  little  while  to  arrive  at  an  understanding; 
but  I  was  getting  used  to  the  varieties  of  Italian  patois. 

"  I  am  Tadoro  Quaglia,"  said  the  elder  boy,  who  had 
the  large  make  and  healthy  sunburnt  hue  of  Michael 
Angelo's  heavenly  children — nothing  fairy-like  or  vi- 
sionary at  all,  but  a  solid  palpable  flesh,  and  a  square 
head,  with  eyes  that  held  no  shame  in  them,  yet  were 
not  impertinent.  "  I  can  guide  you  best  of  any  ragazzo 
in  the  paese  to  the  ruined  city.  Now  is  a  good  time, 
the  corn  was  carried  ever  so  long  ago,  the  vines  are 
stripped,  the  grass  is  not  high.  Signore,  shall  I  take 
you  to  Ninfa?  I  know  the  short  cuts.  To  Ninfa, 
Signore?" 

"  Not  this  morning ;  it  is  too  late.  But  what  is  this 
little  boy's  name?"  said  I,  turning  to  the  younger  one. 


170  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

If  Tadoro  was  robust,  he  was  likewise  clean.  His  com- 
panion, pale  and  fragile,  with  dull  black  eyes,  had  no 
more  signs  of  the  bath  upon  him  than  had  his  dancing 
kids,  which  were  evidently  pets  and  associates,  taken 
into  the  family  on  a  common  footing.  He  spoke  with 
an  infantine  chirrup. 

"  They  call  me  Giovanni  Greco,"  he  answered  hope- 
fully. "  Signore,  give  me  a  little  soldino ! "  The  un- 
washed hand  was  out. 

I  shook  my  ringer.  "  No,  Giovanni,  you  must  n't  be 
a  mendicant."  At  which  he  laughed  as  at  a  good  joke. 

"  But  all  the  world  is  a  mendicant,"  cried  this  juvenile 
philosopher.  And  Tadoro,  by  way  of  exemplifying 
another  doctrine,  the  fruits  to  the  toilers,  echoed  his 
original  proposition. 

"  Signore,  we  will  take  you  all  the  way  to  Ninfa ; 
then  you  give  us  both  soldini!" 

They  continued  wrangling  about  me,  as  in  a  ritornello 
chattered  by  hungry  starlings,  and  I  continued  to  stir 
them  up  by  fresh  denials.  Then  two  other  children, 
much  younger  than  these,  appeared  out  of  the  chestnut- 
wood,  hand  in  hand.  As  soon  as  they  saw  the  little 
goatherds  they  ran  forward,  too,  expecting  soldini  from 
the  stranger.  A  boy  of  perhaps  five,  a  girl  of  three ; 
neither  clean,  in  dismal  rags,  and  with  bare  feet.  I 
thought  them  pretty.  They  asked  an  alms  without 
losing  one  moment ;  putting  out  their  tiny  hands  in 
silence.  "  And  these  bimbi,  who  are  they  ?  "  I  inquired 
of  Tadoro,  constituted  by  age  and  eloquence  the  orator 
of  the  party.  His  answer  came  in  a  flash. 

"  They  belong  to  Nonna  Candia,  the  vecchiarella 
whose  son  was  knifed  by  the  brigands.  Renzaccio's 
children,  these  are." 

I  saw  it  in  their  faces.  The  dead  man,  lying  on  his 
bier,  had  offered  me  such  a  semblance  of  peace  and 
purity,  quiet  in  the  shadow  of  eternal  stillness.  But 


CHAP.  XIII.]  MY  CONFESSION  171 

his  children  had  even  now  taken  my  hand,  one  on  each 
side,  with  a  manifest  belief — which  so  many  other  chil- 
dren had  delighted  me  by  showing — in  my  affection 
for  bimbi  of  their  age.  I  was  held  a  prisoner;  without 
roughly  shaking  them  off — striking,  as  it  were,  a  blow 
at  the  dead — I  could  not  get  free  of  them.  My  veins 
tingled.  "  You  must  let  me  go,  or  how  can  I  give  you 
anything?"  I  said  at  last,  smiling  with  more  pain  than 
I  had  ever  yet  experienced.  They  loosed  my  hands 
then,  but  stood  close,  in  mute  expectation,  the  girl 
holding  my  coat  with  her  baby  fingers  to  make  sure  I 
should  not  run  away.  I  did  not  dare  to  call  them,  as 
one  is  used  in  speaking  to  Italian  children,  by  any 
tender  name ;  it  would  have  died  in  my  throat. 

"What  are  they  doing  here,  at  the  Rocca?  Why 
not  in  Cartena  with  their  mother  and  her  people  ?  "  I 
asked  of  Tadoro. 

He  shrugged  his  broad  shoulders,  "  La  mama  is 
dead  of  fever.  Behold  why !  They  have  only  Nonna 
Candia." 

"  But  how  long  dead  ?  Before — before  what  hap- 
pened to  Renzo?  Say  it  was  before  then."  I  found 
myself  praying  to  Fortune  in  this  lad's  shape,  implor- 
ing some  mitigation  of  the  horrors  which  were  crowding 
upon  me. 

"  But  no ;  for  Giovanni  Greco  and  I  saw  him  laid  out ; 
that  was  long  ago.  The  mama  died,  it  is  not  three 
weeks.  She  took  fever  " — la  frebbe  the  lad  pronounced 
it — "  when  he  was  knifed  by  the  brigands.  Now  the 
bimbi  come  to  their  nonna." 

It  was  too  certain.  I  had  another  death  to  expiate ; 
the  stain  of  blood  was  spreading  by  a  law  of  its  own, 
and  where  in  the  deep  waters  of  life  would  it  be  lost? 

My  soul  fainted  within  me.  But  the  touch  of  these 
children,  clasping  my  hands  again,  woke  me  to  the 
dreadful  present. 


172  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BooK  II. 

"Why  do  you  say  brigands  did  it?"  was  the  ques- 
tion that  I  put  once  more.  "Did  you  see  them?" 
And  suddenly  I  remembered  that  these  were  the  very 
lads  whom  Nonna  Candia  had  mentioned  in  my  hear- 
ing to  Ser  Angelo  as  having  witnessed  the  evening 
scene,  when  Renzo  was  brought  to  her  threshold. 

Tadoro  replied  cautiously,  "Who  knows?  But 
Vanni  and  I  were  in  the  street  playing  mora;  and 
three  men,  with  their  faces  covered,  came  up  the  hill 
carrying  Renzo  between  their  hands.  They  let  him 
fall — thump,  like  that — on  the  stones;  and  away  with 
them.  They  would  be  brigands ;  why  else  should  they 
put  on  false  noses?" 

"You  can't  guess  who  they  were?  Nor  in  what 
direction  they  fled?  Can  you,  Giovanni  Greco?" 

"  We  were  playing  mora;  I  could  not  tell  you,"  said 
the  imperturbable  Giovanni,  his  fingers  beginning  to 
move  unconsciously  to  the  tricks  of  the  game. 

Tadoro  subjoined  this  striking  piece  of  information, 
"  Signore,  when  you  see  brigands,  you  never  see  them ; 
they  run  away." 

But  the  boy  and  girl  at  my  side  were  peeping  into 
certain  pockets  of  mine  just  within  their  reach.  I  must 
hold  their  hands,  smile  at  them,  look  gravely  into  the 
large  bright  eyes — wondering  how  much  they  took  in 
of  Tadoro's  narrative.  Not  a  great  deal,  I  thought. 
The  girl  was  intent  upon  a  swarm  of  midges  that  danced 
up  and  down  in  the  sun.  What  of  her  brother?  His 
features  were  gradually  hardening  out  of  the  vague  into 
a  distinct  and  remarkable  expression.  He  let  go  my 
hand,  put  his  own  together  solemnly,  and  said,  with  an 
eye  upon  the  other  two  lads,  in  his  slow,  childish  stac- 
cato, "  When  I  am  a  man,  I  will  kill  the  man  that  killed 
my  father." 

"  Bravo,  little  Lupo,"  cried  Tadoro,  "  kill  him,  I  say. 
But  what  will  Bice  do?" 


CHAP.  XIII.]  MY  CONFESSION  173 

Bice  was  at  that  moment  putting  up  her  innocent  lips 
to  be  kissed  by  me.  She  had  taken  for  granted  that  I 
was  her  friend  and  admirer.  I  laughed  a  somewhat 
bitter  laugh.  "  Here  are  the  soldini,"  I  exclaimed, 
unclasping  her  from  my  arms.  "  How  many  for  each 
of  you?  And  what  are  you  going  to  buy  with  them? 
Maccaroni  ?  " 

"Eh,  maccaroni  for  us!"  laughed  Giovanni,  when 
he  had  pocketed  the  coins.  "  Maccaroni  is  for  princes. 
I  shall  buy  a  plate  of  polenta." 

Before  I  had  finished  my  almsgiving,  a  girl  in  the 
plain  walking-dress,  which  gave  her  something  of  a 
nun-like  severity,  was  seen  coming  up  the  rugged  path, 
through  the  olive-yards,  which  ascended  to  the  Rocca 
from  the  shrine  called  la  Madonna  delle  Grazie — Our 
Lady  of  Grace.  No  sooner  had  Lupo  and  Bice  caught 
sight  of  her  in  the  distance,  than,  holding  their  coppers 
with  clenched  fists,  they  ran  down  the  steep,  shrieking 
excitedly,  "  Principessa,  behold,  behold!  Money!" 

In  their  haste  the  little  girl  was  on  the  point  of 
stumbling,  when  Donna  Costanza,  running  to  her  with 
outstretched  arms,  took  her  up  and  kissed  her.  Lupo 
held  the  lady's  dress  tight,  and  would  not  let  her  go. 
Thus  she  came  on,  grave  but  tender-looking,  with  such 
an  air  and  gesture  as  La  Carita  wears  in  Sir  Joshua's 
refined  allegory,  well-known  to  me  from  my  Oxford 
days,  when  I  glanced  up  often  toward  it  in  the  painted 
windows  of  New  College  chapel.  But  there  was  a 
difference  here.  A  flame  of  pensive  devotion  had 
touched  the  living  girl's  cheek.  What  would  I  not 
have  given — some  pure  and  perfect  chrysolite,  big  as 
the  world — to  learn  the  subject  of  those  prayers  which 
she  had  been  putting  up  to  Our  Lady  of  Grace  at  the 
shrine  below? 

I  think  Costanza  in  her  maiden  meditations  would 
have  passed  on,  just  smiling  as  she  went;  but  the  chil- 


174  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

dren  clung  about  her,  and  perhaps  in  my  burning  eyes 
and  brow  she  conjectured  some  trouble  which  would 
not  be  wholly  subdued.  If  I  looked  as  I  felt,  she  must 
have  seen  how  wretched  I  was.  The  air  became  op- 
pressive ;  there  seemed  not  enough  to  breathe ;  and 
one  dead  face  grew  multiplied  every  time  these  poor 
babes  stirred  in  their  playful  dance  round  the  girl's 
steps — for  now  Bice  was  chasing  Lupo,  and  the  lad, 
not  an  atom  daunted,  made  Costanza  pretend  to  shelter 
him.  I  do  not  say  they  were  unhappy.  But  their  bare 
feet  and  filthy  accoutrements  declared  them  to  be  among 
the  miserable.  Against  their  ill- famed  Nonna  Candia 
my  wrath  was  kindled  in  a  degree  that  I  recognized  as 
absurd.  Was  it  Candia  that  had  taken  from  them  fa- 
ther and  mother? 

Yet  I  could  not  help  saying  to  the  Princess,  "  Pity 
the  little  ones  are  not  clean,  Signorina!  How  do  you 
dare  to  touch  them  ?  "  For  I  remarked  on  her  cloak  a 
stain  of  green  mud  left  by  the  child's  rags  when  she 
was  folded  in  Costanza's  arms. 

"  You  have  touched  them  yourself,  Ser  Ardente," 
she  replied,  smiling.  "  Were  they  not  holding  you  by 
both  hands  before  I  came?  Ah,  it  is  true,  Candia 
should  not  let  them  wander  so.  Where  are  your  nice 
clothes,  Lupo,  that  were  bought  for  you?" 

Lupo  gazed  all  abroad  with  some  faint  notion,  I  dare 
say,  that  if  he  looked  long  enough  the  clothes  would 
drop  on  him  out  of  the  invisible.  But  no  marvel 
answering  his  expectations,  he  breathed  hard,  and  threw 
himself  into  an  attitude  of  despair.  "  Don't  know. 
Ask  nonna,"  said  he,  "  Lupo,  all  rags — Bice,  all  rags. 
Signora,  I  am  very  hungry.  We  found  no  chestnuts 
in  the  woods.  Did  we,  Bice?" 

"  I  hungry,  too,"  said  Bice,  "  always  hungry.  No — 
no  chestnuts,"  making  a  desperate  effort  to  give  "  cas- 
tagne  "  its  full  sound 


CHAP.  XIII.]  MY  CONFESSION  175 

"  Poverelli,  they  have  only  old  Candia  now,"  said 
the  Princess,  "  but  we  gave  them  their  little  things  to 
put  on.  She  keeps  them  for  the  Festas,  no  doubt." 

They  went  on  murmuring,  each  child  for  itself  in  a 
half-dream,  "  Ho  fame,  gran  fame  " — a  sing-song  as  of 
young  birds  cheeping  in  the  hedge  on  a  bitter  cold  day. 
It  was  a  lesson  they  had  learned — no  more,  I  said  to 
myself;  but  yet  their  pale,  pinched  features,  faintly 
rose  about  the  lips,  very  white  on  the  temples,  had  the 
fever  of  death  upon  them. 

"  Can  these  bimbi  live?"  I  whispered  to  Costanza. 

"  Live?  "  she  answered  absently,  "  it  shall  be  as  God 
pleases.  No,  my  brother  says  orphans  die  young.  I 
have  noticed  it,  too.  Besides,  there  is  Pasquale  with 
his  bad  breath  in  the  house ;  they  all  sleep  in  one  room. 
Well,  the  Madonna  will  take  them  to  Paradise." 

Ah,  it  was  greater  than  I  could  bear — this  burden! 
"  Run,"  I  exclaimed,  pushing  Lupo  by  the  shoulder, 
"  run  and  get  food  for  yourself  and  Bice.  Here  is  more 
money.  If  they  ask  where  you  got  it,  say  the  Signer 
Inglese  gave  it  you!  Away  now" — and  I  made  him 
set  off  up  the  hill  to  Roccaforte. 

Costanza  would  have  followed,  but  I  implored  her 
by  a  sign  to  remain.  She  was  observing  me  anxiously, 
struck  by  the  tone  in  which  I  had  spoken  and  by  my 
disordered  appearance.  "  You  are  not  well,"  she  said 
gently ;  "perhaps  you  feel  the  misery  of  our  poor 
people  more  than  we  who  are  used  to  it.  I  hear  you 
talking  of  it  with  Gaetano  passionately.  Then,  my 
heart  burns  too,"  she  concluded  in  her  kind  voice. 

"  I  feel  it,  yes,  day  and  night  I  feel  it,  Signora.  The 
imagination  of  all  that  suffering  has  been  with  me,  as 
though  I  alone  saw  it,  and  were  too  poor  to  lessen  it 
by  one  single  throb,  for  years  together.  At  Oxford, 
in  that  inclosed  garden  of  ours,  where  its  echo  seldom 
pierces ;  at  home,  beyond  my  father's  gates ;  in  London, 


176  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BooK  II. 

an  Inferno  which  ten  thousand  poets  could  not  exhaust 
of  its  terrific  pains  and  tragedies,  though  they  dipped 
their  colors  in  the  burning  lake;  in  America,  the  land 
which  was  to  have  proved  a  morning-world  of  freedom, 
manly  toil,  and  happiness.  Last  of  all,  here  I  come,  to 
this  ancient  home  of  things  great  and  beautiful ;  but 
there  is  no  change,  no  relief.  How  can  I  help  the  deso- 
late feeling  that  darkens  all  the  sun  for  me  ?  But  there 
is  my  own  trouble,  too — will  you  let  me  tell  it  you? 
Come  into  the  cemetery,  beneath  those  cypresses,  to 
Renzo  Fava's  grave.  I  will  tell  you  there ;  else,  I  think 
— don't  be  afraid,  Signora — but  I  see  you  have  no  fear 
of  me.  Oh,  that  is  right,  so  right !  Unless  I  open  my 
heart,  I  shall  surely  do  myself  some  violence." 

Before  I  had  begun  to  pour  out  these  rapid  words, 
the  other  two  children  had  gone  away  with  their  goats 
into  a  shadier  spot.  The  sun  was  high  and  glared  down 
upon  us ;  and  I  was  standing  with  bare  head  under  its 
rays.  Costanza  motioned  me  to  be  covered.  She  had 
a  strong  will,  as  I  knew ;  and  her  habit  of  prayer  served 
to  keep  down  or  obliterate  those  small  movements  and 
hasty  expressions  that  most  women  under  circumstances 
so  novel  would  have  fallen  into.  The  cemetery,  though 
lonesome  even  in  broad  day,  was  not  far  from  the  public 
road.  Any  one  passing  by  could  perceive  the  whole 
extent  of  it  inside  its  low  walls.  Costanza  glanced  at 
me  a  second  time;  her  lips  moved  in  a  silent  prayer; 
then  she  beckoned,  and  I  went  slowly  on  in  her  foot- 
steps, until  we  took  our  place,  almost  in  the  guise  of 
mourners,  by  the  level  green  sods,  above  which  rose 
an  iron  cross  without  name  or  inscription,  a  dried  crown 
of  immortelles  wreathing  it  sadly.  Renzaccio  lay  there. 

"  Why  do  you  bring  me  to  this  grave?"  asked  Cos- 
tanza. "  Do  you  feel  so  much  for  the  unhappy  victim  ?  " 

I  gave  a  deep  sigh — the  heart  was  overfraught  within 
me.  "  My  victim,  Signora — it  was  I  that  killed  him." 


CHAP.  XIII.]  MY  CONFESSION  J77 

I  stooped  and  touched  the  Cross,  making  it  bear  wit- 
ness of  the  truth  I  was  uttering. 

But  to  her  a  confession  so  abrupt,  unexpected,  and 
without  proof,  could  convey  only  the  dreadful  hint  that 
my  reason  was  suddenly  overthrown.  She  quivered  as 
at  a  blow,  yet  nothing  ever  beat  down  her  courage  or 
swept  away  her  self-control.  How  should  one  answer 
a  madman?  She  was  considering  that. 

"  You  are  not  well,  Signer.  Let  us  leave  this  gloomy 
scene ;  tell  me  all  about  it  when  we  reach  the  castle — 
or  stay,"  a  better  thought  striking  her,  "  will  you  not 
call  upon  Don  Antonio?  It  is  only  a  few  minutes  to 
his  house.  Unfold  your  trouble  to  him;  he  will  be  a 
father  to  you.  What  can  I  do — a  girl  like  me?" 

"  No,  Signora,  don't  leave  me  yet,"  I  cried,  almost 
out  of  myself,  while  the  great  anguish  covered  my  brow 
with  drops  of  sweat.  "  Don  Antonio  is  a  priest,  and  I 
am  not  of  his  religion.  I  cannot  go  to  him.  But  you, 
oh  you !  — a  woman's  heart — you  will  take  pity,  you 
will  keep  my  secret  as  closely  as  he;  you  must  not 
think  me  mad,  unless,  indeed,  this  crime  or  calamity, 
heaping  trouble  on  trouble,  misfortune  on  misfortune, 
should  sear  and  blast  me  into  wildness.  I — I  it  was, 
and  no  other — that  struck  Renzo  down.  He  died  by 
this  hand,  which  ever  since  has  appeared  crimson  in 
my  sight.  Good  God,  but  the  worst  would  have  be- 
fallen if  I  made  my  guilt  known  to  you  and  you  would 
not  believe  me." 

I  saw  she  was  still  apprehensive  that  my  mind 
had  given  way;  still  unconvinced,  but  never  a  whit 
frightened.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  in  mildness  and  com- 
passion upon  mine.  Then  I  quieted  a  little  from  my 
vehemence,  swallowed  down  that  fit  which  was  choking 
me,  and  in  broken  but  sober  words  went  through  the 
story  of  Renzo's  encounter  with  Carluccio  and  my  fatal 
intervention.  I  kept  the  name  of  Tiberio  dark,  making 
12 


178  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

only  the  slightest  allusion  to  him.  Once  I  had  begun 
the  indictment  of  myself,  Costanza  listened  with  an  air 
which  satisfied  me  that  she  no  longer  thought  a  mad- 
man was  before  her. 

"  Now  you  know  I  am  telling  the  truth,"  I  said,  as 
if  it  were  a  matter  of  rejoicing,  "  now  you  can  grasp 
the  motive  which  led  me  to  go  with  you  into  Candia's 
hovel  and  find  out  who  the  man  was  that  lay  there 
dead;  now  you  see  why  at  the  funeral  there  must  be 
one  as  chief  mourner  who  had  never  been  invited.  I, 
this  fool  of  circumstance,  that  thought  his  fellow-man 
inviolable — that  would  not  have  even  the  murderer  put 
to  death;  in  whose  eyes  the  shedding  of  blood  was 
pollution — I  am  stained  with  murder;  I  have  shed 
blood.  And  when  I  fancied  that  there  was  one  victim 
alone,  I  must  reckon  now  the  mother  and  the  children. 
What  can  I  do  in  atonement?  Tell  me,  you  that  are 
innocence  and  purity  itself.  I  will  do  anything  you 
bid  me." 

"  Don  Antonio  would  tell  you  best,"  she  answered. 

And  when  I  signified  again  that  I  could  not  take  him 
into  my  confidence;  that  having  spoken  once,  I  never 
would  open  my  lips  again  to  any  mortal  but  her  who 
had  received  it ;  that  in  her  hands  my  fate  was  wrapped 
up ;  she  answered,  after  a  long  pause,  "  You  are  much 
to  be  pitied,  Signer  Ardente.  But  is  the  blame  so 
great?" 

"  It  is  great.  When  I  struck  the  last  blow,  I  meant 
something  like  murder.  I  gave  place  to  the  devil.  In 
my  blood  there  was  a  current  of  joy  which  overcame 
me  and  would  not  be  resisted.  That  blow  smote 
Renzo's  life  out  of  him.  It  made  his  wife  a  widow, 
his  children  as  I  saw  them  to-day.  "^ 

"You  punish  yourself  too  fiercely,"  said  the  girl, 
"  even  if  all  that  were  true.  Perhaps  it  is  more  fancy 
than  truth  after  all.  Do  not  be  so  harsh  in  judgment 


CHAP.  XIIL]  MY  CONFESSION  179 

of  what  you  have  done.  It  can  be  forgiven.  What  is 
there  that  cannot?" 

"But  atonement?  I  shall  always  now  have  Lupo 
and  Bice  in  my  mind — poor  unconscious  avengers, 
more  dreadful  to  me  with  their  babblings  than  the 
Furies.  Can  nothing  be  done  for  them?" 

"Are  you  rich  or  poor,  Signor?"  she  inquired,  with 
the  perfect  simplicity  of  a  messenger  out  of  heaven,  to 
whom  our  foolish  distinctions  are  naught.  "  Donna 
Anastagia  believes  you  own  great  properties  in  England ; 
my  father  says  you  are  the  heir  of  a  wealthy  house. 
A  rich  man  could  have  these  children  sent  to  school, 
taught  how  to  earn  their  living.  What  would  you 
propose?" 

"My  father  is  wealthy;  but  I  am  not.  I  do  not 
mean  to  be.  With  my  pen  I  could  make  enough  to 
support  them.  Only,  who  would  see  to  it?  For  my 
name  must  be  kept  hidden." 

"  Yes,  if  Nonna  Candia  were  told  all,  she  would — but 
how  know  I  what  she  would  do?"  said  Costanza, 
checking  herself.  Again,  there  was  a  long  pause.  "  I 
can  only  hit  upon  this  plan  for  the  present,"  she  re- 
sumed at  last.  "  You  will  give  me  the  money  you 
have  to  spare.  I  will  consult  with  Don  Antonio.  In 
some  way  the  thing  shall  be  done  through  me.  Will 
that  satisfy  you?  Will  it  make  you  feel  happier?" 

"  God  bless  you,  Donna  Costanza,"  I  said  fervently. 
"  I  promise  everything,  even  to  feel  less  miserable  under 
my  burden,  if  I  may  hope  for  a  word  of  comfort  some- 
times from  you.  Oh,  I  know  what  I  am  asking — too 
much  indeed.  But  if  you  were  a  sister  of  charity,  you 
would  speak  gentle  words  to  the  condemned,  would  n't 
you?  I  am  condemned.  You  must  speak  to  me." 

Her  eyes  had  that  look  in  them  which  belonged  to 
no  world  of  ours.  "  I  will  do  all  I  can  for  you,  Signor 
Ardente,"  she  said,  holding  out  a  hand  which  I  dared 


i8o  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

not  clasp  but  touched  reverently,  as  it  had  been  a  saint's. 
She  knelt  beside  the  grave,  bowed  her  head  in  prayer, 
arose  and  left  me. 

When  she  had  gone  a  long  while,  as  I  reckoned 
minutes  of  such  intense  absorption,  I  looked  up  over  the 
low  walls  and  perceived  that  Lupo  was  sitting  astride 
of  the  parapet,  within  no  great  distance,  nursing  Bice 
and  putting  sweets  alternately  into  her  mouth  and  his 
own.  How  long  had  he  been  here?  Would  he  tell  Nonna 
Candia  that  the  Signer  Inglese  had  been  talking  with 
the  Princess  at  his  father's  grave  ?  Some  danger  light- 
ened from  that  darkness,  away  on  the  horizon.  I  could 
not  attend  to  it  in  my  mood.  The  child  was  very  young, 
incapable  of  describing  more  than  the  bare  fact.  I  let 
it  drift  with  the  future. 

Before  the  day  closed  in,  another  streak  of  flame  had 
leaped  out  from  a  different  quarter  of  the  sky.  Thus 
far,  I  alone  was  threatened.  But  henceforth  the  House 
of  Sorelli  must  lift  itself  against  the  storm  I  had  called 
down  upon  its  aged  battlements.  Let  me  say  how  it 
came  on. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

TEMPEST 

ESTLESS,  but  not  so  troubled,  after  that  Shining 
JLV  One  had  come  down  and  spoken  words  of  com- 
fort to  me — herself  "  vestita  di  color  di  fiamma  viva," 
bright  with  some  unknown  radiance  fronting  my  dark 
— I  had  gone  roaming  toward  the  ruined  Ninfa,  through 
woodland  paths.  The  hours  brought  on  a  transparent 
afternoon,  much  to  my  taste,  its  distances  gleaming  as 
if  a  frost  of  stars  had  fallen  over  marsh  and  meadow.  I 
found  sometimes  a  brilliant  blue  stretch  of  sea  rise  into 
view  and  sink  again,  clearing  the  mind  like  water  flow- 
ing, in  a  way  I  never  could  explain  but  have  often 
experienced.  Toward  dusk  I  was  turning  home  to 
Roccaforte  in  a  languid  humor,  hoping  little,  but 
dreading  no  fresh  ambuscade  of  the  power  that  lurked 
on  my  road.  And  I  passed  up  to  the  castle  entrance, 
reading  above  it,  as  I  was  in  the  habit  of  doing,  its 
^Eschylean  motto,  "  Sangue  lava  sangue."  A  lady, 
large  and  fair,  was  pacing  the  courtyard.  When  she 
saw  me,  she  hastened  down,  and  holding  in  her  right 
hand  a  letter  which  she  waved  triumphantly,  the  Sig- 
nora  Tarquinia  laughed,  and  exclaimed,  "  For  you,  Ser 
Inglese!  Behold,  I  am  your  corriere  di  sera;  I  bring 
you  the  evening  post.  How  much  reward?" 

"  I  can't  say  until  I  know  the  value  of  the  contents," 

was  my  careless  answer.     "  Allow  me  to  see  them."     I 

181 


i82  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BooK  II. 

put  out  my  hand;  but  Tarquinia  drew  back  her  own 
and  held  the  packet  high  in  the  air. 

"  Nay,  nay ;  guess  what  is  inside,  first.  You  should 
be  able  to  guess.  A  message  of  love  or  war?  Ro- 
mance of  the  purest  water,  certainly.  For  how  think 
you  it  came  into  my  hands?  Un  biglietto,  eccolo  qua," 
she  sang,  with  dainty  steps  dancing  back  to  the  center 
of  the  courtyard.  I  must  pursue  the  actress,  teasing 
me  in  her  good-humored  drolleries,  which  at  that  mo- 
ment I  could  have  dispensed  with. 

"But  how  did  you  come  by  a  letter  of  mine?"  I 
asked,  while  she  danced  further  away  out  of  reach. 
"  Did  you  steal  it,  Signora,  from  the  porter's  lodge?" 

"Steal  it,  indeed?  Am  I  Rosina?  Know  then,  Ser 
Cavalier,  I  was  taking  a  turn  on  these  villainous  rugged 
roads,  and  came,  I  cannot  tell  how,  into  a  clearing  of 
the  wood  over  there,  when  all  at  once  a  lad,  a  forester, 
pretty  but  pale,  with  large  pink  eyes,  emerged — that  is 
our  stage  expression  and  an  apt  one — from  a  clump  of 
evergreen  oaks.  He,  this  pretty  lad — but  I  am  not 
sure,  after  all,  that  he  was  pretty — taking  rather — had 
on  a  rich  green  suit,  trimmed  with  silver  tags  and  laces, 
and  wore  a  tuft  of  peacock's  plume,  for  all  the  world 
like  a  little  bersagliere.  Do  you  recognize  Love's 
page?  He  looked  so,  I  assure  you." 

"  A  stranger  to  me,"  I  answered.  "  Pray  go  on. 
What  did  this  Rosalind  say?" 

"  Ah,  you  agree  with  my  suspicion.  Rosalind — yes, 
faith,  it  might  have  been!  But  then  you  would  be 
aware  of  this  booted  and  belted  damsel,  for,  as  I  was 
saying,  she,  or  he,  wore  the  most  coquettish  and  ravish- 
ing stivaletti,  and  a  belt  with  braids  and  tassels  hanging 
down.  Where  is  my  sentence  gone  to  now,  I  wonder! 
Begin  again,  Madame  Tarquinia.  If  it  was  Rosalind,  I 
say,  you  have  read  the  billet  before  you  open  it.  For 
lovers  write  their  foolish  no  meaning  in  single  phrases, 


CHAP.  XIV.]  TEMPEST  183 

'  I  adore  you — I  hate  you — come  to  me — go  to  the 
devil ' ;  or  if  at  greater  length  such  as  this,  '  Perjured 
one,  behold,  I  die.'  But  does  your  Rosalind  live  in  the 
forest?" 

I  was  getting  impatient.  "  Did  the  messenger,  as 
you  call  him,  speak  no  word  at  all?  Please,  my 
letter!" 

"  Rosalind — if  it  were  notTasso's  Erminia — "  replied 
the  tantalizing  comedienne,  "  glided  upon  me  put  of 
the  brake,  stood  still  and  doffed  her  plumes,  with  an 
air  the  most  polished  you  ever  saw,  and  said,  not  with- 
out a  youth's  impertinence  in  her  small  voice,  '  I  have 
the  honor  of  speaking  to  the  divine  Tarquinia.'  I 
could  have  boxed  her  ears.  But  I  answered  mildly, 
'  You  have  that  honor ;  what  follows  ? '  Whereunto, 
the  plumes  bowed  again ;  this  letter  was  produced  from 
the  bosom  of  the  green  jacket;  and  her  sauciness  re- 
plied, '  Favor  me  by  giving  that  with  your  own  beauti- 
ful hand' — a  hand  that  was  very  near  slapping  the 
page's  cheek,  Signor  mio,  and  you  would  have  par- 
doned me! — 'with  your  own  beautiful  hand,  to  the 
English  Sir  that  is  staying' at  Prince  Sorelli's.'  I  took 
the  letter  mechanically,  and  was  turning  it  over  to  read 
the  address,  when  I  lifted  my  eyes,  and  lo,  the  forester 
was  gone.  I  ran,  though  I  greatly  dislike  running, 
Sir  Inglese,  to  this  side  and  that  of  the  clump  of  ever- 
greens. But — nothing!  Rosalind,  the  vixen,  had  got 
to  earth;  and  here  is  your  biglietto  d'amore." 

With  those  words  she  advanced,  made  a  sweeping 
curtsey  in  the  grand  style,  and  dropped  the  letter  into 
my  hand.  It  had  no  address.  I  hesitated.  "  You  are 
sure  it  is  for  me,  Signora  Tarquinia?  " 

She  threw  up  eyes  and  hands.  "  For  whom  else  can 
it  be,  I  ask  you?  Is  there  a  second  Englishman  at 
Roccaforte?" 

That  appeared  to  be  decisive.     Accordingly,  I  broke 


184  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

the  seal,  and  while  Tarquinia  stood  by  with  an  appear- 
ance of  relishing  all  this  immensely,  drew  forth,  not  a 
perfumed  billet,  but  a  square,  thick  paper,  scrabbled 
upon  in  a  tremulous  Italian  hand.  The  first  lines  per- 
plexed me ;  then  I  fathomed  their  intention ;  and 
showing,  I  do  not  doubt,  a  very  swarthy  countenance 
to  the  actress,  I  crumpled  up  the  whole,  saying,  "  Sig- 
nora,  you  are  mistaken;  this  is  not  a  love-message." 
Uncertain  what  next  to  do,  but  reluctant  to  enter  until 
I  had  read  every  line  of  the  document  thus  discharged 
at  me,  I  muttered,  "  Scusi,  Signora,"  and  went  down 
the  path  by  which  I  had  come  up.  The  trees  standing 
near  had  lost  their  leaves.  I  could  still  decipher  this 
writing  in  the  twilight,  and  there  I  paused. 

It  was  an  educated  style,  after  a  fashion.  Calm  and 
respectful,  the  writer,  with  many  flourishes  of  "  Eccel- 
lenza,"  and  so  forth,  begged  pardon  that  he  should  in- 
commode a  stranger  touring  in  the  loveliest  and  most 
unhappy  of  European  lands.  But  times  were  evil,  poor 
fathers  of  families  starving,  the  winter  harsh,  and  I 
could  do  a  world  of  kindness  to  many,  if  I  would. 
The  request,  a  simple  one,  was  that  my  lordship  would 
be  pleased  to  lay  this  candid  epistle  before  Don 
Gaetano — my  client  shrank  from  disturbing  the  repose 
of  his  father,  the  Duke — and  persuade  him,  if  he  would 
be  so  charitable,  to  forward  a  sum  of  ten  thousand  lire 
by  the  bearer  to  those  hunger-bitten  households.  The 
bearer  had  commands,  in  fact,  to  return,  in  the  name  of 
humanity,  within  seven  days.  He  might  be  found,  on 
giving  certain  signals,  in  the  woods  about  Roccaforte, 
and  if  the  money  were  left  on  a  great  stone,  called  II 
Sasso  del  Diavolo,  near  the  clump  of  evergreens  where 
he  had  encountered  the  Signora  Tarquinia,  the  best  use 
would  be  made  of  it ;  while  I,  the  Englishman,  as  well 
as  Don  Gaetano,  should  earn  everlasting  gratitude. 
Only  one  person,  unarmed,  might  approach  the  De- 


CHAP.  XIV.]  TEMPEST  185 

mon's  Boulder — myself  if  I  chose.  Meanwhile,  the 
Prince  and  all  of  us  were  bidden  to  have  no  fear  and 
"star  tranquilli."  It  was  a  good  work;  therefore  to 
be  done,  as  the  gospel  said,  without  the  right  hand  let- 
ting the  left  know  of  it.  My  correspondent  would 
make  bold  enough  to  add,  con  permesso,  that  this  be- 
neficence was  under  the  distinguished  patronage  of  the 
Conte  di  Santa  Fiora. 

The  letter  dropped  from  my  hand,  the  scales  from 
my  eyes.  Tiberio  had  done  this  thing.  I  could  hear 
his  mellifluous  mocking  in  the  rounded  sentences,  nor 
did  I  question  that  the  concluding  sneer  and  gospel 
reference  were  due  to  him.  But  he  was  thrusting  on 
Santa  Fiora  from  behind  the  screen ;  for  what  purpose, 
exactly?  To  get  these  ten  thousand?  There  was 
more  in  it.  He  had  requested  me  to  introduce  him 
within  the  walls  of  Roccaforte;  on  my  refusal,  behold 
the  blackmailer  stood  at  the  doors.  I  began  vaguely 
to  perceive  some  large  design  of  which  these  things 
were  the  prologue.  I  was  to  be  pushed  forward,  like  a 
pawn  over  the  board,  in  a  game  that  Tiberio  would  be 
playing  for  his  own  hand. 

Seven  days'  respite.  Should  I  pack  up  bag  and 
baggage,  leave  the  letter  to  its  chance,  and  have  done 
with  Roccaforte?  The  two  children,  Lupo  and  Bice, 
rose  before  me  at  that  instant  like  shapes  in  the  night, 
following  the  dead  body  of  their  mother  to  Renzo's 
grave.  Their  little  hands  barred  my  way.  I  could  not 
seek  an  interview  with  Costanza ;  it  would  have  been 
against  all  custom,  and  impossible ;  accident  alone  could 
furnish  the  opportunity  I  wanted — and  how  soon?  If 
I  kept  silence  with  Gaetano — but  I  knew  this  to  be 
only  the  first  of  a  number  of  attacks,  which  according 
to  rule  would  succeed  one  another,  becoming  more  and 
more  violent,  until  arson  and  murder  closed  the  account. 
Should  I  inform  the  police  ?  They  were  not  in  Tiberio's 


186  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

pay,  or  none  except  individuals.  But  the  letter  had 
ended  significantly  with  a  recommendation  to  be  tran- 
quil, which,  in  the  well-known  language  of  the  Camorra, 
warned  us  against  invoking  the  public  authorities.  Did 
I  set  them  on,  probably  Gaetano  would  expiate  my  in- 
discretion with  his  life.  I  could  see  Santa  Fiora,  the 
human  serpent,  gliding  under  those  green  bushes  mak- 
ing ready  for  a  spring.  On  every  side  I  was  straitened. 
The  old  castle,  where  we  sat  that  night  in  the  Great 
Hall  at  dinner,  seemed  to  me  wrapped  in  lightning. 

Tarquinia,  playful  and  on  the  surface  a  creature  of 
impulse,  had  good  judgment.  One  glance  toward  me 
on  our  way  into  the  dining-room  convinced  her  that 
she  must  not  carry  further  the  legend  of  the  green- 
vested  page  in  the  woods  of  Roccaforte.  She  talked 
plays  and  operas  all  the  evening  with  a  disengaged  ac- 
cent for  which  inwardly  I  thanked  her.  Yet  something 
I  had  to  do,  and  that  shortly.  Whom  could  I  take 
counsel  with  ?  I  was  absent  in  thought  on  this  inquiry 
when  I  heard  Hagedorn  exclaim,  "  You  tell  me,  Sig- 
nora,  that  silence  is  golden.  We  say  so  in  our  German 
proverb.  Nevertheless,  take  it  from  me  that  speech  is 
diamond.  When  you  have  spoken,  you  can  measure 
the  good  and  harm  of  it.  When  you  refuse  to  speak, 
you  never  know  the  consequences.  My  view  is  that 
three  fourths  of  the  mischief  done  in  this  world  springs 
from  silence.  I  have  very  little  faith  in  it." 

A  hair  will  decide  a  trembling  balance.  No  sooner 
was  Hagedorn  shut  into  his  room  for  the  night,  than  I 
knocked  and  entered.  "  You  look  serious,  my  friend," 
he  said  in  English,  offering  me  a  chair.  "  What  can  I 
do  for  you  ?  " 

"  You  can  advise  me  whether  I  shall  speak  or  be  si- 
lent," said  I,  handing  him  the  letter;  "  read  that." 

He  adjusted  his  spectacles,  drew  the  lamp  toward 
him,  and  went  through  the  letter,  line  by  line,  a  first, 


CHAP.  XIV.]  TEMPEST  187 

second,  and  third  time.  "  Sangue  di  Diana!  "  he  cried 
at  last — he  was  curious  in  his  Italian  oaths — "  that  is 
bad,  very  bad.  Have  you  a  notion  where  it  comes 
from  ?  " 

The  question  was  inevitable ;  yet  how  could  I  answer 
it?  I  was  sick  of  the  story  of  Renzo,  sick  of  Tiberio 
and  the  hold  he  had  got  over  me,  sick  unto  nausea  of 
the  horrid  situation.  Would  it  be  wise  to  open  my 
hand,  letting  the  last  arrow  fly?  It  might  be  wanted 
still. 

"  I  have  heard  the  name  of  Santa  Fiora ;  is  he  not  a 
capobanda  in  these  parts?"  I  said. 

Hagedorn  laughed  in  his  reflective  way.  "  Santa 
Fiora  is  a  name,  a  romance,  possibly  a  myth.  He 
floats  in  the  air  uncertain,  without  shape  or  consistency. 
From  one  month  to  another,  some  act  of  violence — 
firing  the  corn,  killing  or  driving  cattle,  perhaps  the 
abduction  of  a  big  farmer — testifies  that  brigandage  is 
not  wholly  extinct.  It  is  all  put  down  to  Santa  Fiora. 
However,  that  is  not  my  chief  concern.  This  oily 
epistle  means  what  it  says.  You  can't  guess  who  sent 
it  ?  But  how  should  you  ?  It  is  precisely  because  you 
are  a  foreigner  that  the  rascals  have  put  you  in  com- 
mission." 

"  But  what  shall  we  do  ?  I  am  utterly  against  play- 
ing this  part  with  Don  Gaetano.  Would  my  leaving 
at  once  for  England  spoil  their  plans  ? "  I  was  on 
thorns  while  he  considered  his  answer. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  it  would  mend  matters,"  he  said  ; 
"  they  are  aiming  at  the  Prince,  not  at  you.  To  leave 
him  without  warning  would  only  shorten  the  time  of 
defense.  Gaetano  is  a  man  of  mettle,  not  perhaps  so 
prudent  and  slow  as  we  old  fellows  should  like  him  to 
be.  Tell  Gaetano.  I  can  advise  nothing  better. 
Speak,  and  we  will  consult  how  to  take  these  marauders 
in  their  own  trap." 


i88  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

It  was  a  weight  off  my  mind.  I  thanked  Hagedorn, 
went  to  my  room,  which  had  always  been  the  same 
from  my  first  arrival,  and  spent  the  long  hours  until 
dawn  in  staring  at  the  scene  over  my  head  of  Ajax  in 
silver  armor,  dragging  into  captivity  the  mad  Cassandra. 
Sleep  would  never  come  near  me ;  but  in  a  dreamy 
state,  my  imagination,  taking  up  the  story  of  that  in- 
sane bride  of  Apollo,  lured  me  on  from  the  burning 
city  of  Troy  to  the  gaunt  and  shadowy  palace  at 
Mycenae,  with  the  shrieking  woman  at  its  doors,  her 
arms  outspread,  her  hair  streaming  along  the  wind, 
while  she  roused  up  the  ghosts  of  murdered  children, 
or  foretold,  as  if  it  were  this  instant  being  acted,  the 
slaughter  of  Agamemnon  in  the  bath.  All  these  por- 
tents I  mixed  confusedly  together,  and  saw  or  heard  them 
with  a  peculiar  and  inward  sense,  which  affected  me  like 
a  new-born  thing,  shudderingly  aware  of  the  future. 

But  in  omens  from  the  past  there  was  no  guidance. 
Cassandra  might  shriek ;  all  was  in  vain.  Next  morn- 
ing I  lay  in  ambush  to  speak  with  Gaetano  when 
Hagedorn  should  be  near  to  help  me.  The  young 
Prince  had  intended  to  ride  down  as  far  as  the  Casino, 
from  which  we  had  started  on  our  memorable  fox-hunt. 
I  begged  him  to  give  me  a  few  minutes.  We  entered 
the  room  that  had  long  ago  served  as  a  library,  but 
now  was  tenanted  only  by  rats  and  rotting  furniture. 
There  we  could  converse  without  being  overheard. 

Before  handing  him  Santa  Fiora's  epistle,  I  tried,  as 
well  as  might  be,  to  apologize  for  letting  him  see  it  at 
all.  But  I  was  a  stranger  to  the  ways  of  the  people, 
and  I  had  taken  Hagedorn's  advice ;  moreover,  I  added, 
with  an  emotion  that  no  resolve  could  prevent  from 
shaking  me,  "  If  there  is  danger,  Prince,  I  entreat  you 
to  give  me  a  share  in  it.  For  you  and  yours  I  am  will- 
ing, I  should  be  overjoyed,  to  face  the  extremest  perils. 
You  will  believe  that,  Don  Gaetano?" 


CHAP.  XIV.]  TEMPEST  189 

He  grasped  my  hand,  took  the  letter,  and  read  it  as 
carefully  as  Hagedorn  had  done  the  night  previously. 
But  a  great  flush  mantled  his  features  from  brow  to 
chin.  His  lip  trembled. 

"  You  did  well  to  show  me  this  infamous  document," 
he  said  hoarsely,  "  the  damned  villains !  Do  they  think 
the  Sorelli  are  dogs,  and  that  I — I — am  a  minchione? 
By  God's  body,  they  shall  know  different !  Where  is 
Hagedorn?  Where  is  Ser  Angelo?  We  will  smoke 
the  vermin  out  of  their  holes,  and  chase  them  into  the 
Mediterranean  before  three  days  are  over." 

He  was  leaving  the  room  with  a  passionate  stride,  not 
minding  me  under  this  intolerable  affront.  I  motioned 
him  to  hear  me. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  counsel?  Pardon 
me,  my  dear  friend,  I  know  now  the  depth  to  which 
poverty  has  brought  our  house.  In  other  days,  no 
brigand,  were  he  fifty  times  a  Santa  Fiora,  would  have 
dared  to  ask  of  us  blackmail.  We  will  hunt  them,  I 
tell  you,  Signer,  to  the  death." 

"  They  deserve  no  less.  But  call  in  Hagedorn.  He 
will  have  knowledge  equaled  by  no  other  man  among 
your  friends,  Sir  Prince.  There  is  abundance  of  time." 

He  gave  an  impatient  "Yes." 

I  found  the  German  philosopher  smoking  in  the 
courtyard,  and  brought  him  in.  He  saw  the  letter  in 
Gaetano's  hand,  and  glanced  at  me,  a  world  of  warning 
in  his  eyes.  The  Prince's  flushed  and  wrathful  counte- 
nance had  arrested  his  observation.  The  latter  was 
striding  up  and  down,  slashing  his  boot  with  his  riding- 
whip,  and  showing  every  token  of  rage  bent  upon  im- 
mediate action. 

"  What  will  your  Highness  do  ? "  said  the  Teuton, 
with  a  formal  deference  which  was  rare  in  him. 

"  Do  ?  Why,  summon  all  the  men  in  the  castle  and 
on  the  nearest  farm ;  put  them  under  severe  examina- 


190  ARDEN  MASSITER  BOOK  II. 

tion;  learn  where  these  cutthroats  are  lurking,  and 
give  them  chase.  Have  you  seen  Ser  Angelo  lately? 
I  shall  want  him,  to  begin  with." 

"  My  dear  Prince,"  said  the  elder  man  affectionately, 
"  you  will  bear  with  me,  I  am  sure.  Examine  the  men, 
if  you  so  decide ;  but  take  them  apart ;  tell  nobody 
what  has  led  you  to  this  proceeding;  and  get  Ser 
Angelo  to  have  the  forest  explored  in  a  quiet  way." 

"  And  if  all  that  ends  in  nothing — "  cried  Gaetano. 

"  Send  the  money  on  the  day  appointed,  but  take 
care  to  have  all  the  mule-paths  guarded  by  cara- 
binieri — " 

"  By  what?  "  thundered  the  young  man,  in  a  voice  I 
had  never  heard  before  from  his  lips.  "  By  Sardinian 
police?  Hagedorn,  do  you  remember  that  you  are 
addressing  a  Sorelli — one  of  a  Papal  house — one  that 
has  never  owned,  never  will  own,  this  government  of 
lawyers  and  scoundrels?  One  that  counts  among  the 
glories  of  his  kindred  two  Popes,  lying  in  their  marble 
shrouds  at  Ara  Coeli?  Do  you  remember  that  Inno- 
cent III  was  our  cousin?  You  ask  me  to  call  in  the 
Piedmontese  that  Roccaforte  may  sleep  in  peace? 
Madonna  Santissima!" 

He  could  not  utter  a  syllable  more,  so  strong  was 
his  agitation.  We,  looking  on,  kept  our  lips  closed. 
There  was  an  interval  of  minutes,  during  which  all 
three  were  busied  with  reflections  as  unlike  as  they 
were  absorbing. 

Hagedorn  spoke  first.  "  If  your  Highness  puts 
questions  to  the  tenants,  they  will  certainly  be  carried 
to  Rome.  There  is  only  one  way  if  you  are  resolved 
on  preventing  an  official  inquiry.  It  is  to  pay  the 
money  down,  and  watch." 

"  I  will  not  pay  a  single  baioccho ;  neither  will  I 
cringe  to  the  Ministry — to  Camillo,  the  renegade! 
Never.  There  are  still  a  handful  of  the  peasants  I  can 


CHAP.  XIV.]  TEMPEST  191 

trust.  With  them,  and  a  gun  in  my  right  hand,  I  will 
give  an  account  of  Santa  Fiora." 

"  You  mean,  Prince,  that  you  will  shoot  him  ?  "  said 
I,  clasping  the  hand  which  he  had  stretched  out  in  his 
excitement. 

He  wrung  my  own  heartily.  "  What  else  ? "  he 
ejaculated  with  an  energetic  motion  of  the  head  back- 
ward, as  if  to  fling  a  weight  from  him.  "  Suffer  me  to 
get  within  range  of  the  insolent  devil,  and  you  will  see." 

"  But  the  authorities  will  surely  take  note  of  such 
a — "  murder,  it  was  on  my  tongue's  end  to  say,  had  I 
not  before  me  Gaetano's  blazing  eyes.  "  Violence  is 
violence ;  how  do  you  propose  to  evade  a  public  in- 
quiry, when  Santa  Fiora  meets  with  the  fate  he  de- 
serves? " 

Gaetano  replied  scornfully,  "  I  should  like  to  see  the 
Savoyards  arraigning  a  Roman  Prince  for  murder,  all 
Europe  looking  on,  the  subject  a  brigand  notorious  for 
the  corpses  which  he  has  left  in  his  path!  That  chal- 
lenge I  would  take  as  a  godsend.  Come,  you  gentle- 
men, let  us  find  Ser  Angelo."  His  hand  was  on  the 
bolt  when  Hagedorn  interposed  again. 

"  From  Angelo  you  are  not  likely  to  learn  much," 
he  said.  "  I  know  a  more  excellent  way.  Allow  me 
to  be  your  scout  during  twenty-four  hours.  If  by  this 
time  to-morrow  I  have  not  nosed  out  the  trail,  call  up 
a  younger  bloodhound.  Ay,  ay,  Prince,  you  know  me 
of  old.  Lascia  far  a  me.  It  is  the  middle  of  winter; 
the  wolves  come  down  from  the  mountains  where  I 
have  just  been  cheating  the  poor  devils  of  paesani,  ex- 
changing brass  for  gold.  I  don't  believe  you  will  catch 
a  single  snout  in  the  woods  of  Roccaforte  next  Wednes- 
day ;  they  are  up  to  a  deeper  game,  it  strikes  me.  But 
high  or  low,  some  trace  of  them  I  shall  scent.  Now,  I 
beg  of  you  on  my  knees,  not  a  word  of  this  to  any  one. 
I  must  go  about  it  my  own  way,  like  Reinecke  Fuchs." 


192  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

Unwillingly  the  Prince  consented.  His  temper,  at 
white  heat,  made  him  another  man,  sweeping  away  all 
gentler  traits  from  the  beautiful  clear  face,  recalling 
there,  as  from  forgotten  deeps,  the  lineaments  of  the 
medieval  or  Renaissance  chieftain,  whose  lips  gave  the 
law  and  whose  sword  acknowledged  no  superior.  Had 
Santa  Fiora  been  caught  the  next  minute  and  hanged 
from  the  Castle  of  Sant'  Angelo,  even  that  would  not 
have  satisfied  the  honor  of  the  Sorelli — Gaetano  must 
himself  wash  out  the  insult  in  blood.  Between  him 
and  me,  while  this  evil  spirit  lay  upon  my  friend,  there 
seemed  to  be  nothing  in  common. 


CHAPTER   XV 

MONTE    MAJELLA 

IN  twenty-four  hours  Hagedorn,  who  had  been  stroll- 
ing all  yesterday  among  his  peasant  acquaintance, 
brought  us  news,  whence  obtained  he  would  not  reveal. 
Santa  Fiora  had  left  traces  of  himself  lately  in  the  Roman 
Campagna.  There  were  dark  rumors  of  a  stroke,  an 
abduction,  by  which  some  wealthy  person  unknown  had 
been  held  to  ransom  near  the  Tor  de'  Schiavi,  on  the 
Palestrina  road,  within  three  or  four  miles  of  the  Porta 
San  Giovanni.  This  would  be  the  latest  of  a  strange 
and  perplexing  series  of  accidents  which,  as  Hagedorn 
declared,  the  police  did  not  dare  to  investigate,  though 
not  unaware  of  them.  For  the  circumstances  pointed  to 
a  singular  acquiescence  on  the  part  of  the  victims,  and 
gave  hints  that  the  ground  had  better  be  left  undis- 
turbed. Hence  the  authorities  had  no  mind  to  inter- 
fere. If  the  strong  arm  beat  the  brains  out  of  Santa 
Fiora,  they  would  let  him  lie  where  he  fell.  So  much 
was  probable. 

On  the  other  hand,  in  which  direction  to  look  for  him  ? 
Not  a  man  among  the  contadini  would  say.  They  knew 
nothing;  had  never  set  eyes  on  him.  They  sewed  up 
their  mouths  when  compromising  questions  were  asked. 
One  little  goatherd,  indeed — Hagedorn  let  slip  his 
name ;  it  was  Tadoro  Quaglia — had  been  told  of  a  troop 

that  rode  two  nights  ago  in  the  dark  toward  Alatri,  act- 
is  i93 


194  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

ing  on  which  clew,  our  Teuton  had  gained  the  assurance 
that,  if  pursuit  were  begun,  it  must  hold  on  by  Sora 
and  Solmona,  or  into  the  region  of  the  Majella.  "  It 
is  like  Switzerland  up  there  now,"  he  concluded; 
"  these  rascals,  who  know  every  winding  in  the  hills, 
may  turn  down  again  as  we  ascend.  But  that  is  our 
only  chance.  I  tell  you  candidly,  Prince,  a  poor  one 
at  the  best." 

"  Su,  su,  corraggio!  "  exclaimed  Gaetano,  cheerfully. 
"  Let  us  saddle  and  be  off.  You  come,  Signer  Ar- 
dente?"  with  his  courteous  demeanor  again.  This 
intelligence  had  made  him  the  Gaetano  I  knew  previous 
to  the  threatening  letter. 

"  Surely,  Prince.     It  is  my  quarrel  as  much  as  yours." 

"Then  a  fig  for  judge,  juries,  and  carabinieri,  and 
evviva  la  mano  forte — the  strong  hand  forever!"  he 
cried  as  he  went  to  give  his  orders.  Nor  can  I  deny 
that  I  was  prepared  to  execute  a  little  private  murder 
on  my  own  account.  Santa  Fiora  was  vermin;  and 
Tiberio,  had  he  ventured  within  pistol-shot,  I  could 
have  brought  down  without  compunction.  Yet,  such 
is  the  riddle  of  our  nature,  I  still  felt  sorry  when  I 
thought  of  Renzaccio,  nor  did  I  hesitate  in  the  resolu- 
tion of  which  Donna  Costanza  held  the  secret,  to  bring 
up  Lupo  and  Bice  at  my  own  charge. 

We  started,  the  four  of  us,  Gaetano,  Hagedorn,  Ser 
Angelo,  and  myself,  that  forenoon,  well  armed,  mounted 
on  the  sure-footed,  wiry  horses  which  alone  are  equal 
to  these  fatiguing  and  rock-strewn  mountain  tracks. 
No  others  were  taken  into  our  confidence;  but  we 
could  never  be  sure  that  unseen  eyes  did  not  watch  us 
while  we  scoured  over  the  Valley  of  the  Sacco,  crossed 
the  Cosa,  and  made  for  the  Upper  Liris  and  the  Val 
di  Roveto. 

The  weather  was  perfect,  clear-eyed,  with  far  dis- 
tances. And,  after  Sora,  in  the  atmosphere  there  was 


CHAP.  XV.]  MONTE  MAJELLA  195 

a  brilliant  freshness,  due  to  the  snows  above,  on  the 
high  mountain-ranges  that  came  into  view,  reach  be- 
yond reach,  like  the  side-scenes  of  an  enormous  open- 
air  stage.  I  had  an  intoxicating  sensation  of  being, 
carried  along,  the  wind  quickening  every  pulse,  a  spark 
seeming  to  keep  alive  within  the  brain,  as  of  danger 
that  would  explode  upon  us  before  we  knew.  The 
moon  rose  early,  so  that,  in  spite  of  days  still  ending  in 
the  afternoon,  we  had  some  hours  of  light  under  which 
to  prosecute  our  expedition. 

We  rode  fast,  though  with  frequent  haltings,  and  on 
cross  and  irregular  lines,  for  at  every  few  miles  it  was 
incumbent  on  us  to  beat  the  oak  and  chestnut  woods, 
and  even  the  open  fields  in  search  of  this  human  game. 
Our  pretext  was  a  shooting  party  that  had  left  us  behind ; 
nor,  considering  the  Prince's  rank,  as  well  as  his  wide 
friendships  among  the  landed  houses  of  the  Abruzzi, 
was  there  any  serious  likelihood  of  our  being  stopped, 
wherever  we  broke  bounds.  But  in  consequence  of  the 
vague  descriptions  we  offered,  and  seeing  that  we  did 
not  know  the  banditti  by  sight,  we  should  have  taken 
little  by  our  meanderings,  had  I  not  casually  suggested 
to  Gaetano  that  I  had  in  my  mind  a  sort  of  typical 
brigand,  whom  he  might  inquire  about.  He  listened 
attentively ;  and  I  gave  him,  as  near  as  I  dared  venture, 
the  portrait  of  my  "  human  serpent,"  Santa  Fiora.  I 
laid  especial  stress  upon  his  sugar-loaf  head,  long,  snaky 
hair,  and  willowy  person.  Hagedorn  was  listening,  too. 
When  I  had  ended,  the  Teuton  looked  hard  at  me. 

"  Why  did  you  call  it  a  type  ?  It  is  an  individual 
you  have  drawn,"  he  said,  "  and  a  remarkable  one.  I 
believe  you  have  hit  upon  the  very  man.  At  any  rate, 
such  an  outlaw  was  described  to  me,  more  than  three 
years  ago,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Vasto  d'Aimone,  on 
the  Adriatic.  But  he  was  wearing  a  different  name. 
How  did  you  come  on  so  striking  a  resemblance  ?  " 


196  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

"Dreamed  it,  perhaps!"  I  laughed  in  answer. 
"You  can  but  try  it." 

Gaetano  did  so;  and  only  two  or  three  trials  were 
needed  for  so  sharp  an  observer  to  satisfy  himself  that 
the  herdsmen  whom  we  rode  up  to  had  seen  this  Santa 
Fiora — of  course  we  threw  out  no  names — and  that  they 
stood  in  mortal  dread  of  him.  Had  we  appeared  with 
an  escort  of  military,  we  could  not  have  terrified  them 
to  a  greater  degree.  Nevertheless,  perceiving  that  we 
wore  no  official  badges  and  looked  the  mere  shooting 
men  which  we  professed  ourselves,  first  one  and  then 
another  dropped  some  little  circumstance,  indicating 
that  the  company  had  been  somewhere  about  these 
mountains.  We  took  heart  of  grace,  separated  occa- 
sionally the  better  to  gain  information,  compared  notes ; 
and  on  the  fourth  day  after  our  setting  out  on  so  pure 
a  hazard,  found  ourselves  riding  between  the  Sangro 
and  Monte  Majella,  certain  that  the  band  with  their 
chief  lay  sheltered  behind  the  precipitous  rocks — in  a 
ravine  or  a  cavern — round  which  we  were  turning  cau- 
tiously. 

It  was  afternoon.  In  an  hour  the  sun  would  be  dip- 
ping at  the  back  of  the  lofty  hills  behind  us,  among 
which  Monte  Rotella  towered  to  its  eight  thousand  feet. 
A  wild  and  romantic  scene ;  the  mountains  with  their 
snows  above  bare  fantastic  stems  that  made  a  fretwork 
on  their  lower  slopes,  many  dark  evergreens  inter- 
spersed, and  a  rich  herbage,  almost  intolerably  bright 
at  this  sunset  hour,  decorating  the  meadows  which  a 
multitude  of  streams,  now  swollen,  kept  fresh  as  in 
spring.  We  moved  noiselessly  over  so  thick  a  velvet, 
pausing  at  almost  every  other  yard  and  sending  long 
glances  ahead,  while,  wherever  possible,  we  held  to  the 
shade  of  rock  or  covert.  No  spot  could  be  more  lonely. 
Neither  house  was  visible,  nor  herdsmen  with  his  cows 


CHAP.  XV.]  MONTE  MAJELLA  197 

or  goats,  nor  traveler  in  any  direction.  But,  as  we 
came  within  a  defile,  beyond  which  the  tufted  crags 
appeared  to  open,  we  all  stopped  as  at  a  signal  from 
some  unseen  commander.  A  thin  column  of  smoke,  not 
mist,  arose  in  the  evening  air.  It  was  surely  an  en- 
campment. We  had  come  upon  the  enemy;  now  to 
take  him  by  surprise. 

Gaetano  and  I,  dismounting,  left  our  horses  in  charge 
of  Ser  Angelo  and  Hagedorn,  who  took  them  without 
a  word.  We  two  crept  forward,  each  intent  upon  what 
he  was  doing,  eyes  peering  on  all  sides,  and  hands 
smoothing  a  pathway  up  the  rock  nearest  us,  from 
which  some  view  might  be  attainable  into  the  opening 
on  its  farther  side.  As  fortune  would  have  it,  I  reached 
the  summit  first,  dragging  myself  along  the  ground, 
but  prepared  at  the  moment  of  peril  to  shoot.  It  was 
an  admirable  position.  The  sort  of  clearing  in  front  lay 
illuminated  in  strong  level  sunshine.  A  fire  was  burn- 
ing there,  as  we  had  calculated,  and  round  the  fire 
stood,  or  reposed  at  half-length,  in  various  idle  atti- 
tudes, a  dozen  men  and  boys,  their  belts  loosened,  but 
every  man  with  a  gun  at  his  right  hand.  They  were 
eating  their  supper,  talking  in  low  tones,  and  quite  at 
their  ease.  One  among  them  sat  on  a  heap  of  skins, 
in  his  hand  a  wine-flask  which  he  was  then  lifting  to 
his  lips.  I  had  a  full  view  of  the  mean,  dull  features, 
and  without  hesitation  recognized  the  human  reptile, 
Santa  Fiora,  whom  I  had  seen  and  shuddered  at  in  the 
columbarium  on  the  Via  di  San  Sebastiano. 

My  companion  saw  him  too,  and  was  so  amazed  at 
the  reality,  which  tallied  with  my  fanciful  portrait  in 
every  detail,  that  during  some  seconds  he  could  neither 
think  nor  act.  We  knew,  however,  by  previous  arrange- 
ment, what  our  tactics  should  be.  As  we  had  come, 
so  we  glided  back  again,  making  no  sound,  until  we 


198  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

rejoined  the  other  two.  We  were  acquainted  with  the 
general  features  of  the  country,  having  carefully  studied 
them  as  we  rode  along,  and  talked  them  over  in  our 
evening  halts.  There  was  no  other  opening  into  the 
valley  on  our  side  except  the  defile.  On  the  other  it 
fell  away  into  a  level  of  no  great  extent,  but  which  we 
could  not  enter  without  being  seen.  We  must  charge 
from  where  we  happened  to  be.  It  was  our  only  op- 
portunity ;  we  resolved  to  take  it.  Riding  two  and  two, 
still  noiselessly,  we  came  to  where  the  branches  parted. 
But  in  the  leveling  of  our  pieces,  an  eye  from  the  camp 
saw  something  bright.  A  piercing  cry  followed,  and 
we  discharged  our  guns  simultaneously,  and  leaped 
down  into  the  clearing. 

There  was  an  awful  confusion.  The  fire,  trampled 
by  a  score  of  feet,  sent  up  volumes  of  smoke,  and 
would  have  darkened  the  scene  but  for  the  sunshine 
that  struck  through  it.  Our  rifles  sang  once  more ;  but 
the  band,  nimble  as  goats,  leaving  as  many  of  their  fire- 
arms as  they  had  not  instantly  seized,  were  already 
scrambled  into  the  tufted  brake  and  brush,  or,  scamper- 
ing up  the  tiny  goat  tracks,  had  thrown  themselves 
down  where  it  was  impossible  to  single  them  out.  Two 
men  lay  bleeding  on  the  ground,  who  had  fallen  when 
we  discharged  our  first  shots.  In  an  incredibly  short 
time  the  valley  had  lost  its  tenants,  the  woods  had 
swallowed  them.  But  the  most  astonishing  part  of  it 
was  that  neither  from  crag  nor  thicket  did  even  a  sol- 
itary shot  answer  to  our  repeated  volleys. 

We  stood  in  the  clearing,  victorious  and  alone.  Gae- 
tano  had  ridden  up  to  examine  the  wounded  brigands. 
He  was  too  late.  Each  had  been  shot  through  the 
heart.  To  all  of  us  their  faces  were  unknown.  "  Ahi, 
traditore ! "  exclaimed  the  Prince,  between  his  teeth. 
"  Santa  Fiora — the  majale,  the  great  boar — has  got  off." 

"We   had   better   get   off,   too,"   cried    Hagedorn; 


CHAP.  XV.]  MONTE   MAJELLA  199 

"  collect  the  arms,  and  let  us  make  our  way,  without 
losing  a  moment,  to  the  nearest  village.  We  must 
take  to  the  open." 

That  was  good  advice.  Indeed,  one  felt  that  Gae- 
tano's  headlong  manoeuvers  and  disdain  of  the  cara- 
binieri,  who  would  have  captured  the  whole  gang,  had 
put  himself  and  us  into  a  position  of  extraordinary 
danger.  "How  came  it  that  no  shot  was  returned?" 
I  asked  of  Hagedorn.  We  had  picked  up  the  rifles, 
and  were  now  riding  for  our  lives. 

"  They  thought  a  detachment  was  upon  them ;  their 
only  chance  lay  in  flight,"  said  Hagedorn,  panting  a 
little,  so  that  his  answer  came  in  gasps.  "  Besides,  if 
the  capobanda  is  really,  as  I  suppose,  the  brigand  de- 
scribed to  me  three  years  back,  he  is  an  arrant  coward. 
He  never  will  fight  if  it  can  be  helped.  But  don't  let  us 
talk,  for  God's  sake.  Push  on,  friends,  push  on." 

In  obedience  to  this  counsel,  we  were  making  fast 
toward  the  town  of  Lanciano,  which  lay  at  no  great 
distance,  when  the  Prince  suddenly  pulled  up.  "  What 
are  we  doing?"  he  said,  in  his  deep  and  impressive 
tones.  "  At  Lanciano  we  shall  be  asked  for  the  whole 
story.  There  will  be  an  inquest  on  the  bodies;  our 
evidence  will  be  required,  and  carabinieri  sent  from 
Rome  to  guard  Roccaforte.  Meanwhile,  Santa  Fiora 
has  escaped." 

We  had  reined  in,  following  his  example,  and  now 
we  should  have  offered  a  conspicuous  mark  to  the 
enemy  in  the  open  plain.  But  our  halt  did  not  last 
long.  "  Gentlemen,"  said  Gaetano,  with  decision,  "  I 
am  sorry  to  incommode  you,  but  we  shall  not  go  to 
Lanciano.  We  will  ride  round  by  the  mountain  paths 
and  get  home  without  troubling  the  Piedmontese.  Let 
them  look  after  their  own  brigands." 

We  had  no  arguments  to  refute  this  special  pleading. 
It  was  evident  that  the  Prince  would  not  enter  Lanciano 


200  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

with  a  prospect  of  legal  inquiries  before  him  ;  and,  ac- 
cordingly, we  turned  to  the  southwest,  as  the  moon 
came  sailing  up  the  sky  in  her  silver  galley,  and  the 
waters  of  the  Sangro  gleamed  like  a  long,  blue  sword 
flung  carelessly  across  our  path.  By  lonesome,  en- 
chanted woods,  and  by  villages  already  asleep  in  their 
white  raiment — often  weather-stained,  but  glorious 
under  these  beams — we  rode  and  rode,  hardly  once 
drawing  rein  until  the  light  went  out  as  of  a  quenched 
lamp,  so  that  perforce  we  rested,  not  knowing  the 
country  in  front  of  us.  I  call  to  mind  now  the  high, 
untrodden  snows,  on  which  an  intensely  blue  sky 
seemed  to  be  lying,  while  the  moon  reigned ;  the 
strange  silence  of  the  woodland,  still  as  though  every 
tree,  every  leaf,  were  spellbound;  the  little  streams, 
and  plashets,  and  waterfalls,  that  made  a  tiny  music, 
distinct  in  all  that  hush  of  greater  things ;  and  I  wonder 
if  any  night  has  more  completely  taken  me  out  of  my- 
self, or  merged  me  in  nature  with  a  feeling  so  passive, 
yet  so  contented,  while  I  fared  on,  not  minding  whither. 
In  the  pause  of  several  hours,  we  took  it  in  turn  to 
sleep  and  to  watch.  But,  for  all  that  happened,  we 
might  have  been  on  a  lone  island  in  the  Pacific.  And 
thus  the  morning  found  us. 

That  day,  and  the  next,  we  continued  our  desultory 
rambling.  Don  Gaetano  kept  clear  of  the  larger  vil- 
lages. We  bivouacked  in  the  purlieus  of  the  ever- 
recurring  woods,  making  a  meal  of  provisions  bought 
by  Ser  Angelo.  And  as  the  circle  enlarged  on  which 
we  were  traveling,  during  those  hours  we  had  put  sixty 
miles  or  more  between  ourselves  and  the  two  dead 
bodies  lying  in  that  nameless  ravine.  We  talked  little. 
I  fell  into  continual  day-dreams,  after  my  wont,  some- 
times with  a  curiously  pathetic  desire  to  be  near  Donna 
Costanza,  whose  dove-like  wings  might  shelter  me  from 
evils  I  dreaded,  and  anon  resolutely  steeping  my  heart 


CHAP.  XV.]  MONTE   MAJELLA  201 

in  this  Nirvana,  this  opium  of  the  fancy,  which  has  ever 
afforded  me  relief.  No  one  acquainted  with  Arden 
Massiter  has  impeached  his  courage ;  yet  what  am  I  ?  A 
thing  of  fears,  presentiments,  reveries — not  the  dream 
of  a  shade,  but  a  shade  that  dreams.  On  the  whole,  I 
never  wanted  Roccaforte  in  my  horizon  again. 

But  the  circle  rounded  into  itself.  The  castle  soared 
up  to  meet  us,  high  and  forbidding.  We  were  at  home 
after  a  journey  that  might  prove  unfortunate. 

The  day  fixed  for  paying  down  our  ransom  to  the 
ambiguous  boy  or  girl  page  came  and  passed  away 
without  one  of  us  approaching  the  clump  of  evergreens 
where  Tarquinia  had  met  that  plumy  apparition.  Such 
was  the  Prince's  command.  Hagedorn  thought  a  visit 
from  Santa  Fiora  unlikely.  "  He  will  be  keeping  a 
month's  mind  of  those  two  stricken  youths,"  said  the 
philosopher  to  me.  "  The  peril  from  which  he  has  only 
just  escaped  will  be  a  lesson  to  him." 

I  was  not  so  sure.  On  the  stage  I  beheld  another 
actor,  invisible  to  my  host  and  his  friends.  But  the 
Ides  of  March  were  gone,  and  no  Santa  Fiora.  Three 
days  afterward,  on  my  loitering  about  the  piazza  in 
front  of  the  ugly  old  church — I  was  in  hopes  Dr.  Mir- 
tillo  would  come  that  way — the  horrid  witch  Candia, 
after  profuse  apologies  with  hands  and  shoulders,  drew 
close  to  me  and  begged  a  word.  I  followed  her,  since 
she  desired  it,  into  the  filthy  wynd  where  she  lodged ; 
but  on  the  threshold  of  the  house  I  stopped.  "  No 
farther,"  said  I.  "What  do  you  want  with  me?" 

She  thrust  into  my  hand  a  dirty  packet  of  paper, 
making  the  horns,  as  before,  with  the  fingers  that  were 
at  liberty.  She  had  been  told  to  give  me  that.  By 
whom  ?  She  did  not  know ;  a  strange  country  lad, 
who  made  her  a  present  of  three  baiocchi,  to  insure 
her  delivering  it,  and  then  went  off.  Would  I  give  her 
qualche  cosa,  as  acknowledgment?  Never  did  I  loathe 


202  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BooK  II. 

her  wrinkled  face  so  utterly  as  during  this  voluble 
chatter,  which  might  be  all  a  lie  for  anything  I  knew. 

I  gave  her  a  couple  of  small  coins,  and  ran  up  hastily 
to  the  castle  before  venturing  to  open  the  packet.  Ah, 
the  same  hand,  superscription,  and  lickspittle  style !  The 
writer,  he  said,  was  grieved.  No  ten  thousand  lire  for 
the  many  poor  fathers  of  families ;  no  answer  at  all.  It 
was  a  misfortune,  that.  And  yet  who  so  high  and 
mighty  that  misfortunes  would  not  happen  to  them? 
The  undersigned  would  weep  tears  of  blood — lagrime 
di  sangue — if  anything  of  the  sort  befell  the  Duke  or 
his  family.  Therefore,  as  I  loved  God,  would  I  use  my 
influence  with  Don  Gaetano  to  leave  fifteen  thousand 
lire  at  the  same  place  and  with  like  precautions  to- 
morrow? This  was  but  a  first  letter  of  exchange.  If 
honored,  all  would  go  well.  If  not — he  left  it  to  my 
good  sense  as  a  Christian  to  see  that  all  did  go  well. 
And  he  was  my  most  humble  and  so  forth. 

In  taking  this  new  demand  to  my  obstinate  but 
heroic  friend  I  had  no  hesitation.  There  was  not  a 
minute  to  be  lost.  Don  Gaetano  read  it  without  flinch- 
ing. I  saw  in  his  eyes  that  he  would  not  budge. 
"  Thank  you,  Ser  Ardente,"  he  said,  and  tossed  the 
note  into  the  open  desk  at  which  he  was  seated. 

"You  will  do  nothing,  Prince?" 

"  Nothing.     You  have  expressed  my  intention." 

"Not  even  put  a  watch  round  the  castle?"  I  urged. 

"  It  would  be  useless.  Who  can  tell  where  they 
mean  to  strike  ?  " 

I  left  him  in  despair.  The  time  appointed  came. 
It  passed  over  the  dial  as  if  it  were  any  common  hour 
of  any  day  in  the  week.  The  winter  sun  set  and  rose 
again. 

But  hardly  had  it  risen  when  a  crowd  of  peasants 
came  up  with  loud  cries  to  the  gates  of  Roccaforte. 
Ser  Angelo  went  out  to  inquire  the  cause  of  the  tumult. 


CHAP.  XV.]  MONTE  MAJELLA  203 

And  one  of  the  Prince's  chief  huntsmen,  who  lived  on 
the  home  farm,  announced,  with  a  scared  countenance, 
that  the  villa  had  been  burned  down  in  the  night,  many 
head  of  cattle  slaughtered,  and  the  machinery  destroyed 
by  which  the  sluices  were  kept  in  order.  The  fields 
were  flooded;  the  casino  itself  was  a  heap  of  smoking 
ashes. 


BOOK    III 

TIBERIO   SFORZA 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THE    LEGEND    OF    ROCCAFORTE 

HAD  lightning  fallen  from  heaven  and  struck  the 
castle,  its  inmates  and  the  neighborhood  could 
not  have  been  in  greater  consternation.  Here  was  no 
accident.  Treachery  had  kindled  the  blaze,  made  a 
slaughter  of  the  kine,  and  let  the  waters  go  free. 
Every  man  looked  in  his  acquaintance  face  with 
mute  but  expressive  inquiry  and  distrust.  The  cara- 
binieri  were  coming  up,  at  last,  from  Albano,  Marino, 
and  Frascati,  as  to  the  capture  of  the  Sorelli  fortress 
which  had  long  held  out,  morally  speaking,  under  the 
Papal  and  Guelfic  standard.  There  was  incessant  rush- 
ing to  and  fro,  without  aim  or  object.  The  peasants 
gathered  from  all  round  the  Pontine  Marshes  to  see 
what  had  happened.  But  not  one  of  them  except  the 
Duke's  own  men  put  a  hand  to  restore  the  broken 
machinery ;  and  those  that  ventured  in  among  the 
beams  and  bricks  of  the  casino,  which  smoked  with  the 
fury  of  a  lime-kiln  up  to  a  late  hour,  did  so  in  search 
of  plunder.  Indignation  I  observed  on  no  solitary 
countenance ;  but  fear  was  in  all  eyes,  in  the  doubtful 
speech,  and  in  the  trembling  of  the  limbs,  ready  at  the 
first  signal  for  flight. 

In  the  castle,  it  seemed,  every  one  of  us  had  his 
marked  fashion  of  rising  to  the  calamity.  The  Duke, 
who  had  received  no  warning — nor  did  he  guess  the 

207 


208  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  II. 

reason  of  our  expedition  into  the  Abruzzi — was  stupe- 
fied at  an  event  to  which  he  held  not  the  most  distant 
clue.  "Brigands? — it  must  be  so!  But  why  attack 
me?  And  why  never  a  word  of  ransom  previously? 
God's  will  be  done! "  And  so  he  fell  into  the  brooding 
silence  habitual  with  him. 

Gaetano  said  merely,  "  What  is  done  cannot  be  un- 
done. Let  Uberto  [the  huntsman]  stay  here  and 
give  his  account  to  the  police  when  they  arrive.  I 
shall  not  help  them  in  any  way.  When  Lucera  comes 
we  will  get  up  a  hunting-party  that  shall  not  let  Santa 
Fiora  give  them  the  slip.  Till  then,  pazienza!" 

But  he  was  far  from  patient.  I  could  not  but  observe 
how  often  his  eyes  rested  upon  me  in  a  paroxysm  of 
doubt  and  fury.  Not  that  he  suspected  my  share  in 
what  had  come  to  pass — of  course  not;  but  I  said  to 
myself,  "  Were  old  Candia  now,  or  the  insolent  Sis- 
mondo,  to  whisper  in  his  ear  that  I  was  a  jettatore,  he 
would  believe  it,  and  think  it  a  full  explanation.  For 
who  but  I  in  all  this  devil's  business,  from  first  to  last?  " 

Signora  Tarquinia  was  frankly  alarmed.  "  We  shall 
be  murdered  in  our  beds;  or  carried  off  during  the 
night,"  she  exclaimed  on  hearing  the  story.  "  This  is 
only  chapter  one.  You  know  the  way  of  the  banditti, 
Ser  Inglese;  they  begin  with  burning  or  cattle-driving; 
they  end  with  the  rape  of  Helen  of  Troy.  Can  you 
men  do  nothing  to  protect  us?  I  thought  Roccaforte 
too  high  for  these  masnadieri.  In  the  fine  old  days 
they  would  sooner  have  attacked  a  cardinal  with  his  red 
hat  than  a  prince  with  his  red  rapier.  But  what  will 
you  do?  What  is  Don  Gaetano  bent  upon?" 

We  had  been  talking,  in  broken  snatches,  with  a 
nervous  laughter  shaking  our  words  to  fragments,  at 
the  high  window  from  which — how  many  long  weeks 
ago? — the  Duke  and  his  guests  looked  out  on  the 
Sicilians  dancing  by  moonlight.  The  courtyard  was 


CHAP.  XVI.]      THE  LEGEND  OF  ROCCAFORTE  209 

now  full  of  people  coming  and  going  on  various  errands, 
a  confused  scene,  with  little  meaning  in  it.  "  For  in 
this  crowd,"  resumed  Tarquinia,  speaking  under  her 
breath,  "  the  very  incendiaries  may  be  giving  them- 
selves an  air  of  infinite  concern.  We  shall  never  know 
who  did  the  outrages  of  last  night." 

"  But  can  their  repetition  be  hindered  ?  "  said  Donna 
Costanza,  joining  us.  "  We  ought  to  have  no  enemies 
in  the  country  round.  Have  we  not  done  all  in  our 
power  to  comfort  the  poor  people?"  She  was  mani- 
festly pained,  but  rather  because  of  the  temper  which 
these  things  intimated  than  by  reason  of  the  loss  in 
worldly  gear. 

"  Do  you  fear  what  Signora  Tarquinia  thinks  may 
follow?"  I  asked  her.  "Is  there  among  Italian  brig- 
ands a  Paris  who  would  run  off  with  Helen  ?  " 

Her  quiet  laugh  was  reassuring.  "  I  have  gone  in 
and  out  among  the  villagers,  and  ridden  from  the  Rocca 
to  Terracina  without  escort  many  a  time.  If  I  fell 
into  the  hands  of  brigands,  I  should  make  them 
say  the  Rosary,  talk  to  them  of  the  Madonna — their 
mother  and  mine — and  coax  them  until  they  let  me 
go." 

"  You  know  which  Madonna  is  their  lady  patroness  ?  " 
inquired  Tarquinia,  shaking  off  her  serious  fancies. 
"  It  is  as  well  you  should,  in  case  —  " 

"  But  I  never  heard,"  said  Costanza,  amused.  "  And 
so  there  is  a  Madonna  of  the  Banditti?  But  where, 
then?  She  has  very  naughty  children,  la  poverella!" 

"Ah,  where?  At  Naples,  to  be  sure,  where  else? 
The  Madonna  del  Carmine,  you  know.  To  her  they 
make  vows  and  light  candles — perhaps  they  offer  her 
some  of  the  spoils ;  but  I  question  whether  brigands 
are  generous.  The  romances  told  and  sung  about  them 
are  pure  folly.  But  they  do  consider  themselves  clients 
of  the  Madonna  del  Carmine,  I  know  that." 

14 


2io  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

While  they  talked  in  this  tone  of  a  medieval  mystery- 
play,  I  was,  for  the  hundredth  time,  reciting  another 
kind  of  rosary,  which  had  only  three  beads,  "  Black- 
mail, arson,  murder;  murder,  arson,  blackmail."  Two 
of  these  beads  had  slipped  down  the  string.  What  of  the 
third?  Tiberio  Sforza  was  not  the  man  to  draw  back 
when  he  had  put  his  hand  to  the  bow  and  driven  home 
a  couple  of  deadly  arrows.  Could  he  be  kept  outside 
Roccaforte?  Yes,  with  such  consequences  as  the  last 
fortnight  had  shown;  and  I  looked  at  Donna  Cos- 
tanza's  pensive  features  with  a  shiver,  thinking  how 
little  prayers  and  the  Madonna  would  avail,  were  she 
in  that  iron  grip.  Between  Santa  Fiora  and  Tiberio 
such  a  prize  would  surely  be  rent  asunder;  for  which 
of  them  could  ever  yield  her  up?  A  second  time  I 
fixed  my  gaze  upon  her.  Tarquinia,  who  observed  me, 
was  struck,  and  said  in  my  ear,  gravely,  leaning  for- 
ward, "Troppo  fiso" — quoting  the  rebuke  which 
lowered  Dante's  eyelids  before  his  canonized  mistress. 

I  made  a  negative  sign.  "  Not  so,  Madam  Tarquinia," 
was  my  answer,  firmly  given  in  an  undertone ;  "  I  have 
learned  my  duty  now."  And  I  went  on,  "Will  you 
please,  not  leaving  this  hall,  draw  away  a  little?  I  have 
a  message  for  the  Princess,  which  must  be  delivered  in 
private.  You  pardon  me  ?  " 

Tarquinia,  still  more  astonished,  went  away  to  the 
next  embrasure.  The  lady  of  Roccaforte  had  not 
caught  our  whispered  words  and  was  going  too,  but  I 
detained  her.  "  One  moment,  Donna  Costanza.  I  am 
leaving  the  castle  to-day.  Business  takes  me  into 
Rome.  But,  with  your  kind  leave,  I  will  present  myself 
here  again.  Do  not — do  not  be  afraid  of  more  mischief 
from  the  brigands.  I  hope — indeed  I  am  certain — they 
have  done  their  worst.  All  I  desire  to  say — it  is  about 
the  poor  children — " 

"  Can  you  fulfil  your  intention,  as  you  were  saying 


CHAP.  XVI.]   THE  LEGEND  OF  ROCCAFORTE        2U 

at  Renzo's  grave?"  she  asked,  having  apparently  for- 
gotten the  peril  from  baditti  under  stress  of  her  chari- 
table impulses. 

"  I  can,  happily.  The  next  time — "  I  hesitated. 
"  When  I  am  gone  this  afternoon,  if  you  will  pay  the 
chapel  here  a  visit" — I  blushed  as  though  confessing 
to  her  what  I  had  seen  that  night  with  Hagedorn — 
"  you  will  find,  in  the  lap  of  the  Pieta,  close  to  the  door, 
a  purse.  It  is  for  them.  Do  take  them  away  from 
Candia;  she  infects  them  with  her  looks." 

"I  will  do  all  that  is  possible,"  answered  Costanza; 
"  the  purse  shall  not  be  wasted.  But  do  you,  too, 
believe  in  the  malocchio!  I  thought  it  was  only  a 
superstition  of  ours,"  she  concluded,  with  an  amused 
expression. 

Yes,  I  had  revenged  myself  unawares  upon  Candia 
by  charging  her  with  the  demon-glance.  What  is  more, 
she  had  it.  I  laughed,  and  said  aloud  to  Tarquinia, 
"  Signora,  I  am  going;  wish  me  a  happy  journey." 

To  Costanza  I  said  no  more.  In  my  excited  brain 
there  was  a  feeling  that  she  would  be  traveling  with 
me  unseen ;  that  she  must  interpret  my  journey  as  the 
salvation  of  her  House ;  for  on  what  other  terms  could 
I  be  quitting  them  in  a  day  of  eclipse  and  terror?  Nay, 
it  was  conceivable  that,  in  my  agitation,  I  had  hinted 
too  much. 

First,  then,  I  paid  my  visit  to  the  dim  and  austere 
chapel.  By  an  impulse,  which  perhaps  needs  apology 
rather  than  explanation,  I  kissed  the  extended  palms  of 
the  dead  Christ,  laid  my  offering  in  his  Mother's  bosom, 
and  strove  thus  to  take  with  me  the  fragrance  of  Cos- 
tanza's  secret  devotions.  I  left  a  note  for  Gaetano,  to 
the  effect  that  nothing  but  indispensable  necessity  would 
have  called  me  away,  but  that,  in  a  day  or  two,  I  hoped 
he  would  permit  me  to  return,  when  the  present  trouble 
was  not  so  heavy  upon  us  all.  I  should  have  greatly 


212  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

wished  to  share  my  confidence  with  Hagedorn ;  yet 
how  could  I  while  Tiberio  wore  his  cloak  of  darkness? 
I  was  going  to  surrender  into  the  hands  of  that  mis- 
creant, lest  a  worse  thing  should  befall  the  Sorelli. 
His  terms  were  sure  to  be  high,  if  not  exorbitant ; 
among  them,  without  doubt,  silence  on  my  part. 
Ah!  had  I  not  been  purchasing  security  for  Costanza, 
what  a  different  man  he  would  have  found  in  me ! 

It  was  night  when  I  arrived  in  Rome.  I  left  my 
baggage  at  the  station,  strolled  under  the  limes  and 
the  lamps,  drank  my  cup  of  coffee  in  the  mild,  open  air, 
and,  sauntering  at  an  easy  pace,  came  to  the  tall  man- 
sion in  which  my  Prince  of  Assassins  abode.  There 
was  electric  light  on  the  stairs — a  change  from  the  old, 
murderous  guet-apens  which  it  had  been  any  time 
these  five  hundred  years.  To  my  quiet  challenge  at 
the  bell,  a  step  answered,  and  a  wicket  in  the  door  was 
opened.  I  saw  through  it  the  brown  or  purple  eyes 
of  Ascanio.  His  master  was  from  home.  When  to 
return?  Could  not  say;  would  I  leave  my  message? 
I  reflected,  and  thought  I  would  do  more,  if  possible. 
I  said  >gently  to  Ascanio  that  he  had  seen  me  previ- 
ously; that  Tiberio  was  my  friend;  and  if  I  might 
come  inside,  I  would  explain.  No,  he  replied,  his 
orders  were  positive,  never  to  unlock  the  doors,  or 
admit  any  one  in  his  master's  absence.  "  Good  boy!" 
said  I  to  him.  "  Keep  the  pass  according  to  orders.  I 
will  come  at  nine  in  the  morning.  Here  is  my  card, 
on  which  I  have  written  '  Urgent.' ' 

I  was  there  on  the  stroke  of  nine.  Ascanio  threw 
the  door  wide  open.  "  The  master  is  at  his  toilet ; 
he  will  be  down  in  a  few  minutes,"  said  the  lad,  in  his 
clear,  agreeable  tones,  and  with  a  pronounced  Roman 
accent.  He  led  me  into  the  small  dining-room,  where 
he  had  begun  to  lay  the  table  for  an  early  breakfast. 


CHAP.  XVI.]      THE  LEGEND  OF  ROCCAFORTE  213 

As  he  moved  hither  and  thither  I  had  various  occasions 
of  studying  his  features.  They  were,  I  have  already 
observed,  pale  to  a  singular  degree  of  fairness,  but 
finely  drawn,  and  even  beautiful,  with  an  expression 
so  childlike  that  I  saw  how  it  had  misled  me  into  sup- 
posing him  almost  an  infant,  whereas  he  was  probably 
fifteen.  His  large  eyes  were  pink,  or  a  dark  and 
changing  purple,  in  which  the  light  trembled.  He 
wore  one  of  those  loose  tunics  which  disguise  the 
figure;  and  I  could  well  imagine  that,  when  he  was 
arrayed  in  Robin  Hood's  green  and  carried  a  crest  of 
plumes,  Tarquinia,  fresh  from  the  operatic  stage,  might 
have  thought  him  Rosalind.  His  charming  treble 
would  have  rung  saucily  enough  in  a  mock  dialogue 
with  Orlando.  What,  I  said  to  myself — what  was  his 
history?  To  me  a  blank,  and  his  formal  silence  indi- 
cated a  resolve  that  a  blank  it  should  remain. 

Tiberio  entered,  fresh  from  the  bath,  brilliant  as  a 
god  in  face  and  trappings,  with  his  gorgeous  Eastern 
dressing-gown,  his  taking  smile,  his  pallor  not  dimin- 
ished, his  locks  redolent  of  a  subtle  perfume.  He  gave 
me  a  warm  hand.  "  Behold  you,  Sir  Truant,"  he  cried 
in  his  pleasant  voice.  "  What  good  wind  has  blown 
you  hither?  Ascanio,  breakfast." 

And  the  boy,  who  had  seemed  to  catch  his  breath  on 
Tiberio's  entrance,  went  up  to  him  and  kissed  the  hand 
which  I  had  dropped. 

"  Tush,  tush,  these  are  Italian  old-world  courtesies," 
exclaimed  his  master,  kindly  enough,  I  thought.  He 
smoothed,  in  a  lingering  way,  the  thick,  yellow  hair  which 
Ascanio  wore  in  curls,  and  gave  him  an  affectionate 
glance.  "  Italy  is  the  land  of  genius  and  passion,"  he 
continued,  when  the  lad  was  gone  out.  "  You  English, 
excuse  me,  have  neither.  But  something  else  you 
have  which  makes  up  for  both — an  iron  will.  And  so 
you  are  in  Rome  once  more." 


214  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

I  could  not  fence  with  the  man.  Let  him  be  satiri- 
cal now,  when  I  was  there  to  surrender.  We  were 
eating  the  same  bread  and  salt — I,  with  an  intention 
of  loyal  faith,  so  long  as  he  would  employ  no  base 
weapons;  but  he — until  I  had  plumbed  his  secret  pur- 
pose to  the  bottom,  how  did  I  know  what  he  would 
be  doing,  once  his  foot  was  within  the  gate  of  Rocca- 
forte?  I  resolved  to  play  my  next  card. 

"  My  stay  in  Rome  will,  I  hope,  depend  on  yours, 
Ser  Tiberio,"  I  said.  And  here,  once  for  all,  be  it 
observed  that  when  I  write  either  his  first  or  his  second 
name,  I  did  in  fact  make  use  of  that  by  which  he  went 
in  the  world.  To  keep  my  narrative  clear,  I  shall 
speak  always  of  Tiberio  Sforza. 

"How  is  that?"  he  asked.  "Let  me  help  you  to 
these  tomatos  sautes;  you  will  find  them  delicious." 

"  I  remember  you  were  desirous  of  becoming  ac- 
quainted with  Don  Gaetano  Sorelli,"  said  I. 

He  nodded.  "  Camillo's  half-brother.  Certainly  I 
am  anxious  to  know  him." 

"  Well,  I  shall  be  going  back  to  Roccaforte ;  if  you 
will  join  me,  I  feel  sure  you  may  count  upon  a  hearty 
welcome." 

His  eyes  were  steadily  questioning  mine.  "  A  thou- 
sand thanks,"  he  said  lightly.  "  You  are  my  very  good 
friend,  Signer  Ardente." 

"  But,"  I  resumed,  and  I  was  conscious  of  a  dryness 
in  my  throat  which  no  draught  would  loosen,  "you 
will  be  more  welcome  still  if  you  can  employ  your 
great  influence — you  were  telling  me  the  other  day 
how  great  it  is — with  certain  gentlemen  who  are  in  the 
habit  of  writing  letters  such  as  these  to  their  friends  in 
the  country."  With  that  I  pulled  out  copies,  which  I 
had  drawn  in  my  own  hand,  of  the  two  threatening 
letters  forced  upon  Don  Gaetano  by  my  means. 

Tiberio  took  them  in  silence,  read  their  contents  as 


CHAP.  XVI.]      THE  LEGEND   OF   ROCCAFORTE  215 

if  quite  new  to  him,  and  when  he  had  done  so,  burst 
out  laughing.  "  These  are  extraordinary  bills  of  ex- 
change, indeed!"  he  cried,  wiping  his  eyes.  "The 
first,  I  see,  was  not  honored.  How  about  the  second  ?  " 

I  put  on  as  unconcerned  a  look  as  possible,  and  went 
over  the  story  of  yesterday  morning.  "  Hum !  your 
correspondents  have  no  relish  of  a  joke,"  he  said,  when 
I  had  finished.  "They  warn  and  they  strike.  But  you 
were  asking  me,  I  think,  to  interpose.  Mio  caro  Sig- 
nore!"  He  lifted  his  hands  and  laughed  again. 
"What  do  you  take  me  for?" 

I  reminded  him  that  he  was,  according  to  his  own 
volunteered  description,  "  King  of  the  Camorra."  I 
went  further  still.  "  Your  influence,  direct  or  indirect, 
with  this  Santa  Fiora,  I  am  certain,  will  be  powerful 
enough  to  keep  him  quiet  for  the  present.  It  is  pos- 
sible that  when  Don  Gaetano  has  thrown  open  Rocca- 
forte  to  you  as  a  friend,  some  plan  may  be  hit  upon  to 
get  rid  of  the  brigands  altogether.  What  I  ask  now  is, 
whether  you  will  accompany  me  to  the  castle." 

He  was  laughing  still.  "  My  dear  sir,"  he  said, 
"  you  have  taken  certain  rhetorical  boasts  of  mine  at 
an  exaggerated  value.  It  is  true  I  am  not  unknown 
to  some  of  the  Camorristi.  I  say  nothing  about  Santa 
Fiora.  But,  since  you  and  Don  Gaetano  make  a  friend 
of  me,  I  will  see  what  can  be  done." 

"There  is  one  stipulation,"  I  said,  on  his  falling  into 
silence,  which. happened  between  us  oftener  than  I  have 
noted.  "  The  Prince  is  not  aware  of  your  anarchist 
views.  He  will  have  to  be  told." 

"  Qu'a  cela  ne  tienne ! "  said  Tiberio,  carelessly  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders.  "  I  mean  to  tell  him  myself. 
Observe,  Signer  Ardente,"  he  continued,  with  an  ex- 
pansive air,  "  the  motives  which  lead  me  to  accept  this 
invitation  are  of  the  simplest.  Don  Gaetano  is  a  notable 
power  among  the  old  Conservative  Italians — Papalini, 


216  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

Neri,  and  what  not.  They  are  much  too  feeble,  indeed 
— with  skimmed  milk  in  their  veins,  not  blood — much, 
I  say,  too  broken  for  any  enterprise  of  a  revolutionary 
cast.  But  if  the  House  of  Savoy  were  tottering,  they 
would  bless  the  whirlwind  that  sent  it  down.  They 
are  in  perpetual  opposition ;  so  are  we.  That  is  our 
interest  in  common.  Let  me  only  get  speech  of  this 
fiery  young  man,  I  will  answer  for  the  rest." 

He  was  so  frank  and  disengaged,  that  my  suspicions 
would  have  slept,  unless  I  had  seen  the  real  features 
gleaming  through  his  semi-transparent  mask.  And  he 
saw  through  my  mask,  too ;  he  tasted  a  cruel  pleasure 
in  the  terms  which  he  was  forcing  on  me.  A  villain ! 
Yet  I  was  in  some  degree  relieved.  The  man's  enthu- 
siasm, though  selfish  and  bloody,  might  be  genuine.  I 
roused  myself  from  these  thoughts  to  say :  "  Well,  then, 
I  despatch  a  line  this  afternoon  to  Roccaforte,  and  we 
follow  it  up  by  our  arrival  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow,"  he  answered,  with  an  ugly  smile  on 
his  lips,  "  we  will  take  the  old  castle  by  storm." 

It  was  done.  Imagine  now  the  strong  walls  of  the 
Sorelli,  girt  round  with  mountains  and  wintry  tempests 
— for  the  sky  was  full  of  unrest — as  they  held  a  mixed 
assemblage,  Tiberio  among  them.  When  we  passed 
through  the  enormous  gateway,  under  a  heaven  which 
seemed  to  be  of  dull,  flaming  granite,  so  heavy  and 
threatening  were  those  clouds  behind  which  the  sun  lay 
hidden,  I  marveled,  in  my  superstitious  way,  that  the 
armed  hand,  in  the  achievement  above  us,  did  not  strike 
him  down.  Where  was  the  raven  that  should  croak 
this  man's  fatal  entrance  under  the  battlements  of  Roc- 
caforte ?  He  came  on  what  errand  ?  I  had  written  to 
Don  Gaetano,  dwelling  on  the  importance  of  his  becom- 
ing acquainted  with  the  leaders  of  the  youngest  Italy, 
represented  by  this  much-traveled  politician.  To  Hage- 


CHAP.  XVI.]      THE  LEGEND  OF  ROCCAFORTE  217 

dorn  I  said  more,  though  in  guarded  terms.  My  com- 
panion, I  hinted,  known  to  me  from  my  earlier  London 
days,  was,  or  might  be,  the  center  of  a  far-flying  web, 
in  touch,  perhaps,  with  some  of  the  fantastic  yet  formid- 
able associations  that  still  honeycombed  Italian  life. 
There  was  no  telling  whether  his  simple  presence  at  the 
Rocca  would  not  scare  these  small  banditti,  on  the 
principle  of  driving  out  fire  by  fire.  Hence  I  was  anx- 
ious to  bring  him  with  me. 

Gaetano  made  him  welcome.  Hagedorn  approved 
of  my  design.  The  carabinieri,  sent  up  to  us  from  the 
neighboring  towns,  lay  about  in  our  woods,  or  perambu- 
lated the  mule-tracks,  and  made  forays  to  Terracina  in 
this  direction,  to  Frosinone  in  that,  but  discovered  no 
brigands.  The  land  was  profoundly  quiet.  In  answer 
to  all  the  demands  of  the  police,  Don  Gaetano  had 
shown  himself  civil  but  firmly  elusive.  They  were  not 
informed  of  Santa  Flora's  letters ;  and  possessing  no 
clue  to  what  had  happened,  they  began  to  think  of  it 
as  some  private  vendetta,  into  which  it  would  be  un- 
profitable to  thrust  their  hands.  I  received  no  more 
petitions  for  money.  The  ashes  of  the  casino  lay  there, 
by  way  of  evidence  that  it  had  been  burned  down  ;  else, 
in  a  few  days,  one's  thoughts  being  so  fixed  on  un- 
known but  stealthily  advancing  dangers,  I  should  have 
fancied  the  episode  a  dream. 

My  time  in  the  castle  was  almost  up.  I  had  promised 
my  London  editor,  with  whom  I  stood  in  easy  relations, 
to  travel  south  during  the  next  months,  explore  the 
daily  life  of  Naples,  visit  the  sulphur-mines  in  Sicily, 
take  as  near  a  view  as  I  could  get  of  the  Mafia  and  its 
ramifications,  especially  in  the  Conca  d'Oro — the  Golden 
Shell — around  Palermo,  and  help  to  scatter  the  Egyptian 
darkness  in  which  our  beloved  countrymen  were  grop- 
ing after  a  knowledge  of  the  Italy  they  admired  but 
had  hardly  seen.  I  was  leaving  the  field  to  Tiberio. 


2i8  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

His  charming  voice,  and  subtle  courtesy,  and  strong 
but  sincere  language  against  the  reigning  system,  had 
begun,  as  I  saw,  to  exercise  the  influence  I  dreaded  on 
Gaetano,  and  even  on  the  Duke  himself;  who,  though 
speaking  little,  was  full  of  a  sour  indignation,  made  still 
more  keen  by  the  remembrance  of  his  rebellious  son, 
Camillo.  What  Costanza  felt  as  regarded  their  latest 
visitor  I  had  no  means  of  guessing.  A  narrow  escape 
from  accident,  however,  in  which  the  lady  and  I  were 
both  concerned,  did  throw  some  light  upon  her  senti- 
ments, confused  but  sinister.  It  happened  thus : 

I  was  leaving  the  next  day,  and  until  then  neither 
Tiberio  nor  myself  had  been  shown  over  the  whole  of 
the  castle,  perhaps  because  it  was  one  of  those  plea- 
sures which  can  be  taken  at  any  time,  and  are  reserved 
for  weather  during  which  entertainment  out  of  doors  is 
not  inviting.  We  were  met,  after  the  brief  siesta  that 
followed  luncheon,  in  our  usual  drawing-room,  the  fres- 
coed hall  where  I  had  been  first  made  known  to  the 
Duke;  and  on  my  saying,  with  a  certain  melancholy, 
to  Donna  Costanza,  that  perhaps  I  might  never  see  the 
place  of  the  Sorelli  again,  our  Teutonic  friend,  Hage- 
dorn,  had  proposed  that  we  should  explore  what  was 
left  of  it  there  and  then,  under  his  guidance.  Tarquinia 
improved  on  this,  by  a  suggestion  that  the  women 
should  come  too.  And  off  we  trooped,  in  irregular 
fashion,  up-stairs  and  down-stairs,  along  dark  passages 
and  through  suites  of  deserted  chambers,  our  cicerone 
carrying  a  wax  taper  as  if  he  were  leading  us  about  the 
catacombs,  and  holding  it  up  in  obscure  recesses,  where 
the  last  vestiges  of  paint  were  slowly  decaying  on  the 
walls,  or  dusty  cabinets  stood  like  despised  goblins,  or 
a  fluttering  rag  threw  out  some  ghastly  gleam  of  per- 
sonality, in  the  shape  of  limb  or  feature,  wrought  upon 
it  by  splendid  artists,  themselves  gone  down  to  Hades 
long  ago. 


CHAP.  XVI.]      THE  LEGEND  OF  ROCCAFORTE  219 

Hagedorn  was  the  very  man  for  such  a  journey  into 
the  dead  past.  He  made  it  live  again  by  his  ready  and 
expressive  strokes,  which  called  up  old  times  at  a  syl- 
lable, quickened  the  gilded  armor  with  brawny  limbs 
to  fill  it,  snatched  a  moment  of  tragedy  as  from  the 
mists  of  Medea's  caldron,  and  yet  everywhere  left  the 
corpse-cloth  hanging  half  down  over  these  phantoms, 
which  glared  upon  us  and  then  lay  still  as  if  they  had 
never  stirred.  While  he  lectured,  between  a  smile  and 
a  grin,  serious  but  grotesque,  and  in  the  temper  of 
Hamlet,  our  group  was  continually  changing  about  the 
man,  according  to  the  interest  which  one  or  the  other 
felt  in  the  objects  of  this  vast  collection.  The  portraits, 
I  think,  and  a  few  recumbent  statues  on  marble  slabs, 
took  us  all  by  their  appearance  of  a  life  not  entirely 
spent.  We  could  have  spoken  to  them  and  waited  for 
an  answer.  But  the  story  of  this  medieval  house,  un- 
rolled in  such  fragments  of  papyrus  or  mummified 
relics,  and  on  frescoed  coffin-lids — which  was  my  im- 
pression of  it — ran  through  centuries  of  murder,  be- 
trayal, conspiracy,  with  an  occasional  blotch  of  even 
denser  sable,  in  the  form  of  sacrilege.  And  always  the 
gaunt  walls  bore  witness;  the  memorials  in  our  sight 
shrieked  or  muttered  their  foul  accusation;  and  every 
corner  held  a  mystery  of  which  the  heart  was  crimson. 

The  day,  also,  added  strange  terrors  to  what  we  saw. 
It  was  April  in  February;  spouts  of  golden  rain,  with 
preternatural  gloom  succeeding;  high,  sudden,  rapidly 
changing  lights;  and  a  consequently  fitful  animation 
that  came  and  went  with  a  flicker  and  a  flare,  and  a  will- 
o'-the-wisp  uncertainty,  playing  its  own  game  up  and 
down  the  corridors,  and  rising  sometimes  into  a  perfect 
fury  of  storm,  assailing  eyes  and  ears  tumultuously. 
There  were  times  when  Hagedorn's  sentence  snapped 
off,  cut  in  two  by  the  howling  wind ;  other  times  when 
his  voice  went  out  of  itself,  under  pressure  from  the 


220  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

darkness.  And  then,  in  unconscious  agreement  with 
the  returning  sun,  he  would  brighten  up,  and  laugh, 
and  finish  the  grim  jest  that  in  old  stories  was  not 
absent  from  the  death-struggle  of  victims,  asking  the 
Church's  indulgence,  it  might  be,  with  half-choked 
breath,  from  men  Avho  were  slaying  them  in  the  sacred 
name  of  religion. 

"  This  Roccaforte,"  said  the  philosopher,  "  I  have 
studied  during  thirty-five  years  with  ever-new  aston- 
ishment. That  which  overpowers,  which  magnetizes 
me  in  such  an  old  human  dwelling,  is  the  quantity  of 
life  it  will  absorb;  the  hunger  it  feels  for  more  and 
more  of  the  tragic  as  necessary  to  keep  its  moldering 
stones  from  destruction ;  the  fatality  inscribed  on  them 
and,  in  a  day  such  as  this,  exuding,  as  it  were,  visibly, 
from  their  inward  parts.  The  house  lives  its  own  life, 
something  most  unlike  ours,  less  than  human,  and 
greater.  When  I  take  a  deep  view  of  it  all,  certain 
terrific  lines  in  ^Eschylus  sound  to  me  as  though  writ- 
ten of  this  castle  among  the  Volscian  Hills  rather  than  of 
Mycenae.  Listen  to  them."  And  he  quoted  to  me  the 
Greek  verses  which  I  have  attempted  to  English  here, 
though  perhaps  not  the  genius  of  Shakspere  could 
render  them  adequately: 

Lo,  the  dim  Choir  that  haunts  this  palace  high, 
Chanting  with  one  accord  no  music  sweet,  — 
Ill-omened,  rather,  since  to  make  them  bold, 
They  quaff,  the  Sister-Furies,  blood  of  man 
Within  these  halls,  and  will  not  be  sent  forth ; 
But  feasting  here,  a  troop  of  revelers, 
The  doom  of  murder  from  of  old  they  sing. 

"What  unknown  tongue  are  you  speaking?"  said 
Costanza,  struck  by  the  solemnity  with  which  her  Ger- 
man friend  had  mouthed  this  incomparable  bravura 
from  the  "Agamemnon."  "You  must  give  it  in 


CHAP.  XVI.]      THE  LEGEND  OF  ROCCAFORTE  221 

Italian,"  she  went  on,  "  else  the  English  Signer  will 
get  all  the  benefit." 

But  Hagedorn  shook  his  head.  "  No,  my  dear  child, 
I  was  not  quoting  to  you.  The  gods  grant  you  more 
gracious  things.  But  let  us  go  forward.  There  is  yet 
a  world  of  curios  to  conquer  up-stairs." 

But  when  we  arrived  in  the  upper  gallery  a  mighty 
wind  was  blowing  that  shook  all  doors  and  windows. 
In  particular  we  heard  a  roaring  sound,  as  from  the 
lungs  of  some  gigantic  organ,  which  appeared  to  issue 
out  of  a  sunken  door  at  the  northeastern  angle  of  the 
edifice.  By  a  simultaneous  resolution  we  paused  on 
the  landing,  and  gave  ear  to  this  extraordinary  tumult. 
After  an  interval  it  fell ;  then,  as  though  changing  into 
a  higher  key,  it  returned  with  a  scattering  and  inter- 
mingling of  voices  inside  the  closed  chamber  that  called 
up  the  semblance  of  a  dialogue  carried  on  with  abrupt 
and  violent  outbreaks  of  passion.  When  I  made  this 
observation  to  Hagedorn  he  put  on  a  triumphant  smile. 
"You  hear  it,  then?"  he  exclaimed.  "The  three  are 
quarreling  as  of  yore.  Six  centuries  have  passed,  and 
still  they  wrangle.  But  you  never  heard  the  story.  I 
will  tell  it  to  you  gentlemen,"  indicating  Tiberio  and 
myself — "  only  first  let  us  enter  the  room." 

We  did  so,  stepping  down  from  the  passage  upon  a 
stone  floor,  which  had  sunk  in  course  of  ages.  The 
room  was  not  large,  but  vaulted,  with  a  long,  narrow 
slit  in  the  outer  castle  wall  to  serve  as  a  window,  through 
which  the  Sabine  range  was  visible  under  driving  storm. 
No  furniture  of  any  kind  occupied  the  interior ;  its  bare, 
unstuccoed  walls  gave  it  the  air  of  a  dungeon.  "  Now 
lift  your  eyes  to  the  ceiling,"  said  Hagedorn.  We  did 
so,  and  there  beheld,  painted  as  on  the  inside  of  an 
egg-shell  or  a  cup,  in  colors  that  kept  a  certain  freshness, 
two  figures,  somewhat  resembling  great  birds  of  prey, 
engaged  in  a  deadly  struggle.  Nevertheless,  in  spite  of 


222  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BooK  III. 

their  huge  wings  and  the  crests  of  flame  or  brilliant 
jewels  which  they  bore,  the  combatants  were  human, 
with  features  like  and  unlike,  radiantly  angelic  in  the 
one,  saturnine  and  gloomy  in  the  other.  Each  was 
striking  at  his  adversary  with  a  sword;  nor  would  it 
have  been  easy  to  declare  which  was  conquering. 
These  combatants  filled  the  dungeon  with  a  strange 
light. 

"  St.  Michael  and  Lucifer,  all  proper,  I  suppose  ? " 
was  my  comment  to  Hagedorn  when  we  had  admired 
them  sufficiently. 

"  Not  quite  that,"  he  replied.  "  These  are  the 
angels — the  souls,  perhaps — of  two  youths  that  once 
fought  out  their  death-struggle  on  the  spot  where  we 
are  standing." 

There  was  an  involuntary  movement  on  our  part 
toward  the  window,  but  our  story-teller  laughed  in  his 
grisly  fashion,  remarking,  "  You  will  not  escape  that 
way  from  the  accursed  spot.  Indeed,  you  are  getting 
warmer,  as  children  say  in  their  games."  Which  ad- 
monition brought  us  back  to  the  middle,  under  those 
two-winged  and  threatening  figures. 

"  You  are  acquainted,  of  course,  Signori,"  began  our 
guide,  "  with  the  touching  boy's  romance  of  Conradin, 
the  last  of  the  Hohenstaufen  ?  From  these  hills  toTaglia- 
cozzo,  at  the  foot  of  Monte  Velino,  where  he  was  de- 
feated on  the  twenty-sixth  day  of  August,  1268,  is  but  a 
short  journey,  and  with  the  mind's  eye  nothing  is  more 
easy  than  to  see  him  marching  behind  those  Sabine  peaks 
and  passes  to  his  early  doom  in  the  Campi  Palentini. 
You  remember,  also,  that  the  Pope  was  his  enemy, 
having  bestowed  on  the  French — God  knows  by  what 
right  or  no  right — the  kingdom  of  Naples.  Then,  as 
now,  the  Sorelli  were  papal;  but  then,  also,  as  now, 
one  of  them  was  found  to  take  sides  with  the  Ghibel- 
lines,  and — pardon  my  referring  to  it,  Donna  Costanza-*- 


CHAP.  XVI.]      THE  LEGEND   OF  ROCCAFORTE  223 

his  name  was  Camillo,  while  his  dignity  was  that  of 
eldest  son  and  heir.  His  brother,  Gaetano,  held  by 
the  tradition  of  the  Volscian  House  with  the  Prince, 
their  father.  And,  on  a  memorable  day,  as  these  two 
and  the  old  man  were  seated  in  the  very  room  we  are 
visiting,  news  was  brought  that  Conradin  with  his 
Germans  had  been  seen  on  the  march  near  Aquila. 
Immediately  Camillo  was  for  joining  him.  His  father 
and  brother  entreated,  threatened,  objurgated  in  vain. 
A  most  embittered  quarrel  broke  out  which  filled  this 
place  with  clamor.  And,  at  last,  the  impetuous  Gae- 
tano, thundering  at  him,  '  If  you  must  go  to  the  ex- 
communicate, take  the  nearest  way/  seized  upon 
Camillo,  bore  him  resisting  to  that  window  which  looks 
toward  the  Sabines,  and  flung  him  head-foremost  out 
of  it." 

There  was  an  exclamation  of  horror  from  us  all. 

"  Yes,"  pursued  Hagedorn,  "  he  flung  him  out. 
Once  and  again  the  body  dashed  upon  the  jutting 
masonry  below.  And  legend  says,  what  your  young 
eyes  may  certify,  that  a  reddish  stain,  traveling  along 
the  wall  even  yet,  marks  where  his  blood  sprinkled  it." 

We  had  listened  breathlessly.  Not  only  was  the  tale 
affecting  in  its  curious  anticipation  of  present  troubles, 
but,  while  Hagedorn  was  telling  it,  the  storm  and  sun 
together  had  thrown  a  flickering  gleam  of  life  into  the 
fresco  upon  the  vault,  which  now  appeared  to  yield  the 
victory  to  this  combatant  and  anon  to  that,  shaking  the 
golden  wings  free  or  the  russet,  in  an  alternation  of 
lights  which  every  moment  changed  the  effects  or  the 
gestures,  so  that  we  followed  it  eagerly,  as  if  uncertain 
what  should  be  the  issue. 

Hagedorn  continued  :  "The  elder  prince  fell  dead  into 
the  ravine.  His  father,  some  time  afterward,  becom- 
ing insane  or  penitent — it  is  hard  to  decide  which — 
captured  a  wandering  artist — his  name  is  unknown — 


224  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  III.. 

and  kept  him  here  in  prison  until  he  had  executed  this 
remarkable  picture.  It  is  at  once  an  apology  and  an 
expiation." 

"  But  I  have  never  seen  the  red  stain,"  said  Cos- 
tanza ;  "  and  as  for  this  tempest  that  goes  on  muttering 
to  itself  in  the  room,  I  should  think  it  was  nothing  but 
the  wind.  Signor  Ardente,  come;  let  us  examine 
whether  any  crimson  is  yet  discernible  on  the  castle 
walls."  And,  before  I  could  stay  her,  she  had  opened 
the  long  window  and  passed  out  upon  the  hanging  bal- 
cony a  little  beneath  it.  I  followed  instantly,  Tiberio 
coming  on  my  track ;  but  the  aperture  was  small,  and 
he  remained  leaning,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  room,  while 
we  two  stood  upon  the  quaking  ledge,  now  furiously 
assailed  by  the  sirocco  from  the  southeast. 

I  can  hardly  remember  what  ensued.  A  noise  like 
thunder  filled  the  room  which  we  had  quitted,  and 
then,  giving  a  long,  irregular  sweep,  as  about  to  plunge 
clean  into  space,  the  balcony  heaved  and  yielded, 
cracked  from  its  holding  in  the  masonry,  and  was  loose 
under  our  feet.  By  a  frantic  impulse  I  had  leaped  back 
into  the  room  with  one  arm  about  Costanza,  who  clung 
to  me  in  a  sort  of  convulsion.  Her  figure,  with  its 
garments  waving  in  the  air,  floated  one  moment  in 
vacancy.  The  wind,  now  at  its  height,  tore  away  and 
hurled  into  the  gulf  below  the  rusty  iron  construction 
on  which  we  had  been  standing;  and  I  found  myself 
in  the  tall,  narrow  meurtriere,  partly  crouched  within 
the  chamber,  but  holding  Costanza  with  both  arms, 
and  incapable  of  lifting  her  to  my  own  level.  How 
long  did  this  last?  Impossible  to  say.  But  there  was 
Tiberio  putting  his  arm  round  the  girl,  as  well  as  the 
space  would  permit,  to  aid  me  in  rescuing  her;  and  I 
can  still  hear  Costanza's  voice,  clear  as  a  bell,  crying  to 
him,  "Don't  touch  me,  you,  or  I  will  throw  myself 
down.  Albaspina,  help!" 


CHAP.  XVI.]      THE  LEGEND  OF  ROCCAFORTE  225 

There  was  a  blind  scuffle ;  Tiberio  was  thrust  on  one 
side,  and  Hagedorn,  with  the  vigor  of  youth  in  his  old 
limbs,  had  come  to  our  assistance.  Between  us  we 
drew  the  lady  up  out  of  that  awful  tempest,  which  was 
raging  all  round  us,  in  the  air  outside  and  in  the  vaulted 
chamber. 

My  arms  ached  as  though  they  had  been  broken. 
But  Costanza,  who  had  never  lost  her  presence  of  mind, 
did  not  faint,  and  scarcely  trembled.  When  she  was 
able  to  stand,  immediately  she  made  her  way  to  the 
chapel,  whither  none  dared  to  follow  her. 

Next  morning  I  left  Roccaforte. 


15 


CHAPTER  XVII 

I    RETURN    FROM   THE    SOUTH 

SIX  or  seven  weeks  I  spent  alone,  wandering  over 
that  Greek  and  Norman  realm  of  the  South,  where 
history  puts  on  the  colors  of  romance,  and  memories 
thick  as  blossoms  spring  up  at  every  step,  but  especially 
those  of  seafaring  men  or  gods,  from  Ulysses  to  Robert 
Guiscard,  from  old  mythical  explorers  to  Moorish 
pirates.  I  did  not  leave  my  forebodings  or  my  fears 
behind.  Often,  in  the  visions  of  the  night,  I  was  at 
Roccaforte  again;  I  talked  with  Gaetano  in  dreams, 
beseeching  him  to  keep  guard  before  his  door,  as  an 
enemy  was  drawing  near  to  it ;  I  felt  the  solid  footing 
shake  under  me  and  plunge  into  space,  while  Costanza 
clung  round  my  neck  and  cried,  as  Tiberio  showed  his 
pale  face  in  the  window,  "  Do  not  touch  me,  or  I  throw 
myself  down."  These  terrors  pursued  me  through  the 
whole  of  my  Homeric  pilgrimage ;  if  the  days  abounded 
in  marvels  that  absorbed  my  griefs  for  a  while,  in  sleep 
I  felt  the  burden  which  was  never  henceforth  to  be 
shaken  off.  We  did  not  exchange  letters;  the  Italian 
has  yet  to  learn  the  art  of  correspondence ;  but  I  knew 
from  Tiberio's  earlier  attitude  how  sure  he  was  of  my 
appearing  on  the  scene  at  my  first  free  moment,  and  that 
our  battle  was  not  ended. 

In  April  I  came  back  to  Rome,  passed  a  few  hours  in 
my  old  pension  at  Giovanni  Finocchio's,  and  hastened 

226 


CHAP.  XVII.]      I  RETURN  FROM  THE  SOUTH  227 

out,  after  due  announcement,  to  the  Volscian  Hills. 
Tiberio  came  with  Gaetano  to  greet  me  at  the  railway- 
station.  We  talked  eagerly  and  incessantly  all  the  time 
— during  our  drive,  after  dinner,  and  far  on  into  the 
small  hours  of  the  night.  That  I  was  excited,  in  a 
mood  of  unbridled  rage,  and  aflame  with  rebellious 
impulses,  I  do  not  deny.  The  time  itself  pointed  to 
stormy  weather.  Spurts  of  revolt  were  bursting  up  in 
most  of  the  large  Italian  cities;  meetings  had  been 
forbidden,  of  Socialists  as  well  as  of  Catholics;  many 
newspapers  underwent  fines  and  occasional  suppres- 
sion ;  and  from  Africa,  where  the  ruling  statesmen  had 
designed  to  set  up  a  colonial  empire,  every  other  day 
brought  bad  news.  To  revolutionaries  like  Tiberio 
Sforza  this  was  encouragement;  but  even  Gaetano,  I 
perceived,  had  begun  to  argue  with  himself  that,  sooner 
or  later,  the  Guelfs  would  be  compelled  to  exchange 
their  policy  of  passive  resistance  for  measures  that 
might  lead  them  into  the  field  where  blows  are  struck 
and  blood  is  poured  out.  And  my  own  temper  had 
been  exasperated  almost  to  madness  by  the  inhuman 
spectacle  of  Naples  and  Sicily  suffering  under  the  triple 
yoke  of  taxes,  brigandage,  and  barbarism. 

Thus,  all  three,  we  had  a  common  but  a  dangerous 
ground  on  which  to  meet — a  ground  heaving  with 
earthquakes  and  sending  up  its  horrid  sulphur-fumes 
through  vents  and  cracks  innumerable.  My  principles 
forbade  plotting;  but  I  went  a  long  way  with  the 
anarchist  eloquence  of  Tiberio;  and  it  was  only  my 
deep  affection  for  young  Sorelli  which  held  me  back 
from  putting  heart  into  him,  when  he  neared  the  perilous 
edge.  I  knew  that,  once  caught  in  the  toils,  he  would 
be  made  a  victim  by  the  bold,  bad  man  whose  ambition 
it  was  to  succeed,  let  his  instruments  fare  as  they  might. 
When  our  talk  was  over,  I  blamed  myself;  what  had 
I  to  do  with  pouring  oil  on  the  fire  which  was  already 


228  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

blazing?  But  there  spoke  and  throbbed  in  me  the 
fierce  misery  of  those  wretched  Sicilians,  whose  story, 
told  at  length,  would  be  a  world's  wonder.  I  was 
drunk  with  it,  and  my  spirit  broke  out  in  imprecations. 
Was  the  new  way  doomed  to  be  as  corrupt,  detestable, 
and  ineffective  as  the  old  ?  Good  God,  what  then  had 
been  the  worth  of  battles  by  sea  and  land,  what  the 
crown  of  all  that  striving,  thinking,  suffering?  Only  a 
crown  of  thorns,  tinged  yet  more  deeply  with  blood? — 

So  I  felt,  and  so  I  spoke.  At  no  time  would  I  unsay 
what  I  said  in  those  fruitful  and  unhappy  conversa- 
tions. We  seemed  now  intimate  as  we  never  had  been 
before.  Of  the  banditti  who  had  ruined  the  casino  not 
a  trace  was  discoverable.  They  had,  it  was  jestingly 
reported,  gone  off  into  Calabria,  rife  just  then  with 
stories  of  blackmailing  or  open  robbery.  Tiberio  Sforza 
talked  nothing  but  politics;  hearing  him,  one  would 
have  sworn  he  was  an  enthusiast  of  the  most  brilliant 
water,  loving  freedom  on  its  own  account,  but  tenderly 
alive  to  the  sufferings  of  his  fellow-men.  And  yet — 

I  was  not  the  only  friend  of  Roccaforte  that  felt  un- 
easy at  his  growing  influence  there.  One  fine  morning 
I  met  Dr.  Mirtillo  in  my  walks  along  the  hillside,  where 
the  almond-trees  still  kept  their  snow-bloom,  and  the 
cyclamen,  rosy-white  and  tender,  were  showing  by 
thousands  in  the  fresh-springing  grass.  The  doctor  and 
I  had  become  very  good  friends.  Our  views,  except  as 
regards  capital  punishment,  were  not  dissimilar;  I  liked 
his  frank  and  hearty  ways. 

"  An  astonishing  fellow,  that  Signer  Conte,"  he 
began,  calling  Tiberio  by  the  name  which  he  had  as- 
sumed. "  You  know  I  believe  a  little  in  the  reality  of 
hypnotism,  though  most  medical  men  fight  shy  of  it. 
Thus  believing,  I  suspect  the  Count  of  practising  it  on 
the  sly.  He  has  subdued  our  Duke,  and  the  Prince, 
and,  faith,  even  myself.  We  all  swear  by  him." 


CHAP.  XVII.J      I  RETURN  FROM  THE   SOUTH  229 

"  Does  Donna  Costanza  swear  by  him?"  I  asked,  in 
no  small  trouble  of  mind. 

"  Donna  Costanza! "  he  repeated,  looking  at  me  with 
a  knowing  smile.  "Ah,  what  is  one  to  say  of  her? 
She  is  betrothed,  you  are  aware,  long  since,  to  the 
Marchese  di  Lucera.  He  comes  to  claim  her,  one  of 
these  days.  Otherwise,  I  don't  say — the  Count  is  a 
mighty  charmer.  Not  the  malocchio!  No,  because, 
since  he  arrived — and  he  is  always  coming  and  going 
— Roccaforte  sleeps  in  peace.  The  house  is  not  burned, 
nor  the  cattle  slaughtered ;  we  have  not  even  a  dead 
brigand  to  show,  like  that  poor  devil  of  a  Renzaccio." 

I  could  have  fancied  an  oblique  reference  to  myself, 
by  way  of  contrast,  in  the  physician's  banter ;  but  I  let 
the  talk  go  by.  He  had  mentioned  Lucera,  and  my 
thoughts  were  running  upon  him.  Was  it  imaginable 
that  Costanza  had  no  choice  but  to  accept  that  empty- 
headed  popinjay  ? 

I  left  Mirtillo  and  walked  on.  In  the  course  of  my 
rambles,  turning  down  to  the  Madonna  delle  Grazie, 
with  some  foolish  hope  of  running  up  against  a  certain 
devout  pilgrim  to  the  shrine,  who  was  often  to  be  en- 
countered on  that  hilly  path,  I  saw  the  venerable  form 
of  Don  Antonio,  the  parish  priest,  where  he  moved 
slowly  along,  his  lips  reciting  prayers  from  an  open 
breviary.  It  was  not  a  season  to  trouble  him ;  but  as  I 
showed  signs  that  I  wished  for  conversation,  he  put  up 
his  book,  and  accosted  me  by  raising  his  three-cornered 
hat.  In  his  tremulous  but  clear  notes,  when  he  began 
to  speak,  I  detected  a  slight  agitation. 

"  It  is  very  singular,  Ser  Inglese,"  remarked  the  old 
man,  after  some  words  on  the  beauty  of  the  day  and 
the  spring,  "  but  you  come  to  me,  as  I  had  been  making 
up  my  slow  mind  to  come  to  you.  Old  people  freeze 
in  their  wisdom,  I  think,  sometimes.  They  take  so  long 
before  venturing  upon  action." 


230  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

"  What  can  I  do  to  oblige  you,  Don  Antonio?  I  am 
wholly  at  your  service,"  said  I. 

He  stood  still  in  meditation,  looking  the  picture  of 
all  that  was  amiable  and  sanctified,  with  his  soft  white 
hair  shading  thoughtful  eyes;  then,  taking  my  hand 
kindly,  he  went  on  a  few  steps. 

"  This,  too,  is  remarkable,"  he  said  at  last.  "You,  as 
we  can  all  perceive,  are  neither  an  Italian  nor  a  Catholic. 
I  am  told  you  represent  a  great  English  journal  that  is 
the  organ  of  Socialism  in  London.  None  the  less,  I 
fear  you  not  at  all ;  nor  will  you  ever  do  our  noble 
house  up  there,"  pointing  to  the  castle,  "  an  injury. 
Not  so  the  other — the  Count!"  he  concluded,  hesi- 
tating. 

I  took  him  up.  "  Although  he  is  Italian,  and,  as  you 
suppose,  a  Catholic — eh,  Don  Antonio?" 

"Even  so,"  he  answered;  "and  surely  it  is  strange. 
But  I  cannot  like  him,  or  feel  happy  when  he  stays  with 
Don  Gaetano.  He  repels  me,  as  if  some  hidden  poison 
were  stored  up  in  his  throat,  and  were  he  to  spit  it  forth 
— Dio  mio!"  The  good  Don  Antonio  covered  his  eyes 
with  a  trembling  hand,  showing  marks  of  intense  appre- 
hension. I  seized  my  opportunity. 

"  Do  you  fear  he  will  captivate  Donna  Constanza?  " 
I  asked,  plucking  to  pieces  in  my  impatience  a  tuft  of 
cyclamen  which  I  had  gathered. 

The  priest  gave  me  a  quiet  look,  and  laughed  to  him- 
self. "  Don't  be  afraid,  Signer,  of  that,  at  least.  Donna 
Costanza  is  in  no  danger  from  the  Count." 

"  Because  she  is  promised  to  the  Marchese  di  Lu- 
cera?"  I  asked  boldly. 

He  laughed  again,  with  great  tenderness.  "  I  did  not 
say  so,  my  dear  sir.  Indeed,  I  have  no  right  to  say  any- 
thing. But  the  Signorina  is  in  good  hands.  No,  I 
dread  lest  our  Gaetano — you  are  his  friend,  I  can  see 
it,  therefore  I  speak  to  you — should  be  drawn,  I  know 


CHAP.  XVII.]     I  RETURN  FROM  THE  SOUTH  231 

not  how,  into  secret  ways,  pledges,  promises.  I  cannot 
tell  what  the  Count  is  aiming  at,  except  that  he  may  do 
with  our  Prince  as  he  will.  In  this  land  of  ours  con- 
spiracy has  ever  been  the  curse  of  eager-hearted  young 
men ;  and  though  Gaetano  works  in  the  light,  I  fear,  I 
fear  this  man's  passion,  power,  and  subtlety.  A  Catholic 
he  is  not,  whatever  he  may  be.  My  prayer  to  you,  Ser 
Inglese,  is  to  take  him  away,  rid  the  castle  of  his 
presence,  let  him  spin  his  cobwebs  elsewhere — the  great 
spider!" 

"  But  if  he  will  not  go  at  my  bidding?  Nay,  more, 
suppose  Gaetano  wished  him  to  stay?" 

Don  Antonio  came  to  a  halt  again,  and  lifted  his 
hands  impressively.  "  Then  it  is  the  end !  Mark  me, 
the  end  of  the  Sorelli!  Camillo,  whom  I  knew  and 
loved  as  a  child,  is  lost  to  us.  He  will  die  without  heirs ; 
the  new  order  of  things  has  swallowed  him.  But  Gae- 
tano was  our  hope,  our  last  support.  If  he,  too,  is 
swept  away  in  the  tide,  good-by  to  Roccaforte.  Down 
comes  the  castle  with  the  race  that  has  flourished  on 
those  heights  seven  hundred  years." 

"  Unless  I  take  the  Count  along  with  me,  such  is 
your  prophecy,  Don  Antonio  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  prophecy,"  answered  the  beautiful  old  man, 
his  eyes  filling  as  he  turned  them  on  me.  "  Doubtless, 
at  my  age,  after  all  I  have  witnessed  of  change  during 
three  quarters  of  a  century,  I  am  inclined  to  view  the 
dark  side  of  things,  to  see  in  them  warnings  and  tokens 
that  the  world  I  was  born  into  is  passing  away.  I  have 
never  dashed  cold  water  on  Gaetano's  aspirations ;  they 
were  lovely  and  pleasant  in  my  sight.  Neither  can  I 
welcome  this  modern,  restless,  bewildering  time;  it 
confuses  my  poor  old  brains ;  it  whirls  me  along  at  a 
pace  that  makes  me  sick  and  giddy.  But  nowhere  in  it 
can  I  discern  a  place  for  these  ancient  races.  While 
they  linger  in  the  mountains  and  keep  apart,  they  may 


232  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

survive  ;  when  they  go  down  there" — stretching  out  his 
arm  in  the  direction  of  Rome — "  they  will  die,  like 
plants  rooted  up,  laid  bare  to  the  noonday  sun.  Take 
the  Count  hence,  I  repeat,  if  you  love  Gaetano.  He  is 
blighting  our  Prince,  withering  our  fondest  hopes." 

I  thought  it  exceedingly  true.  "  Your  affection  fore- 
casts evil,"  I  said;  "so  does  my  knowledge,  such  as  it 
is,  of  the  world's  ways.  Believe  me,  what  I  can  do,  I 
will  do.  Yet  I  may  fail.  Only  never  forget  this,  Don 
Antonio,"  I  added,  grasping  his  delicate  hand,  "  what- 
ever happens,  I  care  as  deeply  for  Gaetano  as  if  he 
were  my  own  flesh  and  blood.  I  admire  him ;  I  love 
him  with  a  full  heart.  I  cannot  tell  you  more.  But  if 
the  Count — ah,  it  is  no  use  talking;  he  will  never  go 
until  his  purpose  here  has  been  accomplished." 

I  ran  from  the  good  old  man,  lest  his  sympathy  should 
win  my  secret,  and  even  more  mischief  be  done. 

"  The  Count — the  Count ! "  I  soliloquized,  keeping  on 
down  toward  the  shrine.  "  Is  there  anything  that  will 
force  him  to  draw  back  one  of  those  living  tentacles 
which  he  has  fastened  upon  the  Sorelli?  Did  I  pierce 
into  his  dark  spirit,  I  could  bring  some  motive  to  bear. 
But  it  is  a  sealed  volume  to  me." 

Perchance  it  was  not  altogether  legible  to  himself. 
For  when  I  had  gone  within  a  dozen  yards  of  the 
wayside  chapel  a  strange  sight  arrested  my  steps.  The 
little  fane — a  whitewashed  building  not  many  feet 
square,  merely  an  enlarged  tabernacle  for  the  picture 
of  the  Madonna,  stood  beneath  spreading  branches, 
round  which  a  wild  vine  had  festooned  itself  like 
some  familiar  snake.  In  the  grass  hard  by  a  spring 
bubbled  up ;  and  the  mountain  of  limestone,  bare  with 
green  patches,  rose  above,  making  a  background  such 
as  one  is  always  contemplating  in  the  religious  paintings 
of  the  school  of  Giotto.  Inside  a  wire-woven  screen 


CHAP.  XVII.]     I   RETURN  FROM  THE  SOUTH  233 

the  picture  was  set  into  the  wall,  its  lamp  burning  day 
and  night,  while  flowers  of  art  or  nature  and  long 
fresh  grasses  adorned  the  iron  trellis.  Often  before  I 
had  paused  to  admire  the  sweet  face  of  Our  Lady, 
against  which  the  Bambino  pressed  his  baby-coun- 
tenance ;  for  it  was  a  simple  archaic  drawing,  unaffected 
and  nai've.  But  when  I  came  to  it  now,  whom  should  I 
set  eyes  on  but  Tiberio,  in  the  guise  of  a  pilgrim,  with 
a  wreath  of  rosy  cyclamen  in  his  hand,  which  he  was 
substituting  for  others  that  hung  faded  between  the 
interstices. 

I  was  amazed.  The  man's  ringers,  I  thought,  should 
be  dropping  blood  rather  than  offering  flowers  to  the 
Madonna.  Was  he  making  up  for  the  death  of  those 
two  brigands  whom  he  had  compelled  us  to  slay,  and 
whose  remains  we  had  left  unburied  in  the  shade  of 
Monte  Majella?  Did  he  still  put  faith  in  prayer? 
Impossible.  I  walked  deliberately  forward  until  he 
caught  sight  of  me,  and  then  hailing  him,  "  You  are 
engaged  on  a  devout  errand,  Signor  Conte,"  said  I. 
"  How  long  have  you  been  converted  to  the  ways  of 
your  childhood  ?  " 

Tiberio's  brow  darkened.  "  Who  told  you  I  did  n't 
believe  in  the  Madonna?"  said  he,  arranging  his  gar- 
land with  a  great  show  of  attention.  "Besides," 
catching  at  a  reason  that  he  knew  would  sting,  "  per- 
haps these  are  gifts  from  Donna  Costanza;  I  am  only 
the  basket  that  carries  them.  What  say  you  to  that, 
Ser  Ardente?  Not  jealous,  I  hope?  Yet  some  one 
has  no  eyes  for  men  or  things  when  the  Signora  is  in 
presence,"  he  added  tauntingly.  "  You  will  have  to  be 
on  your  good  behavior  soon,  my  dear  friend.  Lucera 
comes  in  three  days;  the  Duke  weds  his  daughter  to 
the  Neapolitan ;  and  you  and  I  go  away  like  the  fox 
that  lost  his  tail." 

"  Those  are  not  the  Signora's  flowers,"  I  said,  putting 


234  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

on  a  calmer  tone.  "  It  is  you,  Ser  Tiberio — you,  of 
all  men,  that  believe  neither  in  God  nor  devil — who 
come  here  with  them  to  flatter  and  coax  the  Madonna 
into  overlooking  your  little  enormities.  I  should  take 
my  chance,  if  I  were  you,  and  let  the  saints  alone." 

The  holy  pilgrim  smiled.  "  Eh,  eh ! "  said  he,  with 
the  characteristic  national  shrug  and  eyes  aslant.  "  It 
will  do  no  harm.  If  there  are  saints,  the  compliment 
will  taste  on  their  lips  like  honey.  Should  there  be 
none — but  we  will  not  say  so  here."  He  finished  his 
reasoning  triumphantly  with  another  gesture,  and 
kissed  the  tips  of  his  fingers  to  the  Madonna  behind 
the  screen. 

"  It  is  true,"  he  went  on,  taking  my  arm,  "  I  have  not 
much  of  what  you  cold  Northerners  mean  by  religion  ; 
but  my  faith  is  strong  in  the  Madonna  del  Carmine ; 
otherwise  the  Camorristi  would  take  me  for  a  spy  and 
a  traitor." 

With  a  final  salute  to  the  shrine,  he  turned  away, 
and,  as  I  could  not  shake  him  off,  we  ascended  to  the 
village  piazza.,  busy  toward  the  noonday  hour  with  old 
women  and  damsels  drawing  water,  washing  linen,  and 
gossiping  at  the  rate  of  an  empty-minded  population  of 
jackdaws  or  magpies  out  and  about  in  the  sunshine. 
It  was  a  page  from  the  antique — not  beautiful,  though 
some  of  these  Rebekahs  had  fair  faces  and  stately 
forms,  but  dirty,  hard,  prosaic.  The  great  fountain  was 
an  ugly  stone  basin ;  San  Romito  looked  bare  and 
chill ;  the  houses  gaped  upon  one  with  their  yawning 
windows;  the  clear  warm  light  added  to  their  harsh 
tones  and  displayed  their  age-long  uncleanness.  Neither 
could  one  behold  a  single  sprig  of  green,  a  touch  of 
vegetation,  anywhere.  The  barren  rocks  would  have 
seemed  far  lovelier  than  these  miserable  caverns. 

Amid  so  much  to  weary  and  disenchant  a  traveler 
who  has  dwelt  in  our  picturesque  English  villages,  I 


CHAP.  XVII.]     I  RETURN  FROM  THE  SOUTH  235 

was  taken  with  the  play  of  dogs  and  children,  running, 
racing,  jumping  at  one  another,  rolling  over  on  the 
filthy  cobbled  piazza,  and  making  a  merry  world  of  it, 
like  boon  companions  as  they  were.  These  drolleries 
put  me  in  mind  of  Lupo  and  Bice,  touching  whom 
Costanza  had  not  as  yet  spoken  to  me;  but  as  we 
could  hold  conversation  only  at  dinner  or  when  others 
were  with  us,  I  felt  no  surprise.  They  would  surely  be  at 
some  good  school,  away  from  Candia.  Hardly  had  I 
reiterated  this  comfortable  saying  in  my  own  mind, 
when,  looking  toward  the  fountain,  I  beheld  the  ill- 
favored  old  crone,  a  pitcher  of  water  balancing  on  her 
grimy  locks,  and  running  by  her  Renzo's  two  children, 
their  rags  no  less  foul  than  the  day  I  first  saw  them, 
their  feet  bare,  their  faces  unwashed.  How  came  this 
about?  Had  they  not  been  sent  to  school  after  all? 

Disengaging  my  arm  from  Tiberio,  I  ran  round  to  the 
corner  of  the  lane  which  ascended  to  Candia's  rocky 
nest.  We  encountered  suddenly  ;  our  eyes  met,  and  in 
the  same  moment  the  ancient  dame  lost  her  footing 
and  over  went  the  pitcher,  spilling  every  drop.  At 
which  disaster,  as  was  to  be  expected,  Lupo  and  Bice 
set  up  shrieks  of  delight.  Not  so  their  winsome  nonna. 
With  one  hand  she  gripped  the  bronzed  pitcher — a  relic 
of  heathen  grace  and  simple  beauty — with  the  other, 
extended  in  the  attitude  of  the  mano  pantea,  she  men- 
aced me — the  jettatore — pouring  out  a  volley  of  curses, 
at  once  blasphemous  and  shocking,  which  I  dare  not 
attempt  to  reproduce.  The  least  of  the  evils  imprecated 
on  my  head  were  apoplexy,  hanging,  and  damnation. 
An  occasional  word,  more  emphatic  than  the  rest,  was 
caught  up  by  Lupo  and  echoed  by  Bice,  whose  stam- 
mering lips  had  already  begun  the  trade  of  cursing  and 
begging,  which  in  every  town  of  Italy  are  the  same 
profession.  Thus  I  stood,  under  a  shower  of  evil 
wishes,  rained  upon  me  by  Renzo's  aunt  and  children, 


236  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

as  if  on  the  impulse  of  his  "  sightless  substance  "  hover- 
ing near.  It  was  ludicrous  and  horrible.  Nothing 
could  stop  it  except  the  still  stronger  fascination  of 
money.  I  had  some  questions  to  ask,  and  I  pulled  out 
my  purse.  At  this  spectacle  the  she-Cerberus  checked 
her  blasphemies;  the  children  put  forth  mendicant 
palms.  I  held  the  notes  near,  but  gave  none  till  there 
was  perfect  quiet. 

"  No  use  crying  over  spilled  water,NonnaCandia,"  said 
I ;  "  but  money  will  mend  an  accident.  Pazienza  " — for 
she  was  clutching  at  it  greedily — "  these  are  pretty 
children  of  yours." 

I  had  got  so  far  in  my  prologue,  when  she  glared 
across  at  me  with  tigerish  eyes,  red  as  a  coal,  and  seiz- 
ing the  boy  and  girl  in  turn,  spat  upon  their  necks 
hastily.  I  had  made  another  slip;  my  praise  meant 
bad  luck,  which  only  spittle  could  avert. 

"  Let  them  alone ;  let  me  alone.  Why  do  you  cross 
our  path?"  screamed  the  hag.  "I  saw  you  first  the 
day  Renzo  was  laid  out,  in  the  evil  hour.  Go,  and  may 
all  the  devils  roast  you  in  Vesuvo !  Let  us  alone,  I  say." 

"  But,  God  bless  the  woman,  I  meant  you  no  harm — 
neither  you  nor  your  bimbi.  You  shall  have  these  notes, 
I  tell  you.  There,  now  you  will  calm  down.  But  why 
are  not  Lupo  and  Bice  at  school?" 

"Ah,  why?  School,  school!  They  want  no  school. 
Yes,  they  were  sent  away — to  some  place  in  Rome — 
Donna  Costanza  sent  them.  But  I  had  them  brought 
home  again.  They  shall  stay  with  me.  Why  must 
the  poor  have  their  children,  their  darlings,  torn  from 
them,  to  be  put  in  the  Foundling,  or  where  know  I? 
My  house  is  school  enough  for  them." 

"  But  the  Princess  thought  they  would  do  better  in 
Rome.  Could  you  not  be  persuaded  to  let  the  poor 
things  go  where  they  would  get  education,  clothes,  and 
all  you  lack  here?" 


CHAP.  XVII.]      I  RETURN  FROM  THE  SOUTH  237 

"I  was  persuaded,"  she  answered  sulkily ;  "  then  I  had 
them  back.  Every  one  does  what  the  Signora  wishes. 
But,"  she  continued,  darting  a  fierce  look  at  me, "  was 
it  the  Signora?  Lupo  told  me  that  he  watched  you 
confabulating  with  her  at  Renzo's  grave — God  rest  his 
soul,  and  God  damn  to  all  eternity  the  man  that  took 
his  life !  Yes,  it  was  after  you  played  with  the  bimbi 
and  gave  them  money,  she  wanted  them  to  go.  And 
you — you  are  not  lucky,  Signer.  Know  you  that?  " 

Now  she  made  the  fatal  horns  without  concealment, 
still  expecting  as  a  right  the  money  I  had  promised. 
Well,  I  was  not  lucky.  In  that  account  of  me  I  agreed 
with  Hecate,  as  she  stood  there,  the  children  pulling 
at  her  ragged  dress  and  slipping  into  postures  that 
reminded  me,  oddly  enough,  of  Laocoon  with  his  two 
boys  twined  in  the  serpent's  folds.  I  gave  her  the 
notes  in  silence. 

"Thanks,"  she  said  gruffly.  "Take  my  counsel, 
Signor;  go  to  your  own  country,  and  leave  us  to 
ourselves.  Here,  little  vipers,  come  along  with  me — 
we  must  fill  the  pitcher  again." 

So  another  of  my  devices  had  come  to  naught.  The 
children  were  not  redeemed.  I  went  my  way,  feeling 
very  much  as  a  man  whose  offering  for  blood- guiltiness 
the  gods  had  flung  back  in  his  face.  On  arriving  at 
the  castle,  an  impulse,  which  needed  no  explanation  to 
me,  urged  me  to  pay  the  chapel  a  visit,  where  I  had 
not  set  my  foot  since  leaving  the  purse  that,  I  was 
sure,  Costanza  had  accepted.  The  place  was  empty ; 
the  afternoon  lights  left  it  in  shadow.  For  a  while  I 
stood  in  presence  of  the  dead  Christ ;  then,  putting  my 
hand  upon  the  marble,  I  found  my  purse  where  it  lay 
in  Madonna's  lap,  and  drew  it  forth,  my  gift  still  within 
it.  Ah,  and  had  the  girl  shrunk,  after  all,  from  dedi- 
cating a  stranger's  money,  a  heretic's  indeed,  to  her 


238  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

pious  work  ?  I  must  inquire  that  of  her.  In  any  case 
Renzo  had  answered  my  kindness  with  implacable 
scorn. 

The  air  of  superstition  was  infecting  me.  I  did  not 
hold  a  shred  of  these  beliefs  in  vengeance  from  beyond 
the  tomb,  or  in  blood  crying  out  of  the  ground,  yet  my 
conduct  during  months  had  been  shaped  by  them.  Old 
Greek  stories  were  running  in  my  head ;  verses  hummed 
about  me,  droning  their  burden  of  fatality.  I  was 
CEdipus,  doomed  to  an  ironical  and  pitiless  fortune ;  I 
was  Orestes,  who  could  not  purge  out  one  crime  save 
by  another;  I  was  the  victim  and  the  prophet,  entan- 
gled in  the  snare  which  had  laid  hold  of  Gaetano  Sorelli. 
Thinking  these  sad  thoughts,  while  I  came  down  by  the 
winding  way  which  Hagedorn  had  taught  me  from  the 
chapel  into  the  Great  Hall,  at  a  given  angle  my  friend's 
voice,  curiously  distorted,  struck  upon  my  ear.  I 
listened ;  a  second  voice  answered.  He  and  Tiberio 
were  loud  in  conversation  below. 

Nay,  not  so  loud.  This  corkscrew  staircase  took  the 
sounds  at  one  angle,  hurled  them  to  the  opposite, 
against  which  I  was  halting,  and  enlarged  them  in  the 
process,  adding  at  times  a  nasal  twang,  reminiscent  of 
Pulcinello.  It  made  me  smile,  being  so  grotesque  when 
the  matters  debated  were  of  life  and  death.  How  did 
these  two  venture  on  speaking  there,  with  doors  wide 
open?  I  think  the  dialogue  had  begun  accidentally, 
and  Tiberio  had  seized  his  chance.  He  was  now  holding 
forth. 

"  My  dear  Prince,"  the  conspirator  was  saying, "  we 
strike  at  the  same  enemy,  and  for  my  part,  I  recommend 
the  same  weapons.  But  how  few  grasp  the  situation ! 
Shall  I  give  it  in  three  words?  The  Crown  is  un- 
popular, Parliament  is  in  its  agony,  and  one  power — 
one  alone — stands  erect.  The  Army,  of  course!  You 
grant  it?" 


CHAP.  XVIL]     I  RETURN  FROM  THE  SOUTH  239 

"  I  grant  it,"  said  the  unseen  speaker,  in  a  tone  of 
strange  sadness. 

Tiberio  resumed,  "  Follow  me  a  step  further.  Who 
is  going  to  control  this  Army  ?  You  say,  the  King.  I 
say,  not  the  King.  If  he  and  his  generals  could  secure 
a  campaign  of  victories  in  Africa,  it  might  be  different. 
But  Africa  is  our  Cochin  China;  we  shall  lose  men, 
money,  prestige.  The  Army,  caro  Signore,  is  not  in  love 
with  parliaments,  and  will  be  enraged  against  a  Royal 
House  that  cannot  save  it  from  defeat.  Again,  you 
agree  ?" 

The  voice  replied,  "What  then?  No  army  can  act 
without  a  captain.  Where  will  you  find  him — or  them  ? 
— for  we  need  a  General  Staff." 

"  Precisely,"  cried  Tiberio,  his  accent  swelling,  and 
Pulcinello  seeming  to  throw  into  it  a  mocking  delight. 
"  Now  we  have  it.  What  I  tell  you  is  founded  on  the 
best  of  information.  This  Army,  which  reads  and  thinks, 
but  anyhow  is  full  of  the  esprit  de  corps,  has  in  every 
regiment  a  lodge,  a  nucleus,  of  true  Republicans,  Fed- 
eralists— I  don't  stickle  for  a  name — but  I  mean  the 
men  of  to-morrow.  You  understand?  To-morrow! 
Now,  I  ask,  is  it  not  true  that  you  nobles,  you  Catholics, 
have  a  career  open  in  military  life  alone,  an  influence  in 
the  Army,  and  nowhere  else  ?  For  you  Parliament  does 
not  exist.  We — the  men  in  whose  name  I  address  you 
— can  furnish  a  revolutionary  rank  and  file,  with  an 
overpowering  number  of  the  better  educated  non-com- 
missioned officers — proletarians  one  step  advanced. 
Well — you  take  me  ?  " 

Silence  in  the  room  and  on  the  stairs.  Gaetano 
was  thinking  over  these  words  of  Mephistopheles ;  the 
charm  had  begun  to  work.  But  he  refrained  from 
answering. 

"  Listen,"  said  the  tempter  in  a  lowered  voice,  still 
audible  to  me.  "  You,  Don  Gaetano,  have  an  influence 


240  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BooK  III, 

far  greater  than  you  dream.  You  lead  the  young 
Catholic  nobles,  whether  in  the  service  or  in  society. 
If  you  formed  them  into  a  company — secret  it  must  be, 
but  as  pious  and  papal  as  you  please — with  this  object, 
to  get  the  Army  under  their  thumb,  by  God,  I  say,  you 
could  be  King  of  Italy,  Dictator  of  Rome  in  five  years. 
Join  forces  with  me,  and  do  it!" 

I  understood  Gaetano  to  ask,  in  a  drooping,  unsteady 
voice,  what  Tiberio  expected  to  get  by  the  compact. 
To  which  he  answered,  "  I  want  an  order  of  things  in 
which  the  strong  man  comes  to  the  top.  I  want  this 
great  central  wheel — this  bureaucracy — to  be  smashed, 
that  is  carrying  up  with  it  ten  thousand  scoundrels  of 
avvocati.  I  want  the  times  of  the  Renaissance  back 
again,  when  genius  and  force  ruled  the  world.  No,  of 
course  I  am  not  a  papalino.  Clerics  and  lawyers  are 
much  the  same  to  me — to  you  not,  I  am  aware.  But 
surely,  if  you  had  Rome  in  your  grasp,  you  would  be 
for  governing  it  yourself,  the  old  Princes  in  their  old 
palaces,  dictating  to  the  Fourteen  Regions  and  overaw- 
ing the  Vatican.  It  is  a  state  of  things  I  should  not 
dislike.  I,  too,  Signore  Principe,  am  a  noble ;  on  the 
mother's  side  a  Baglione  of  Perugia ;  on  the  father's — 
perhaps  something  more." 

It  was  a  shaft  well  aimed.  Gaetano  would  feel  it, 
and  I  heard  him  answer  with  some  animation.  Then 
my  name  dropped  from  his  lips.  "  Shall  we  take  Sig- 
nore Ardente  into  our  counsels?"  he  was  asking.  To 
which  came  upon  my  ear  with  redoubled  mockery  the 
quick  response — "  Arden  is  one  of  those  pure  English 
dreamers  that  are  loath  to  shed  any  man's  blood,  includ- 
ing their  own.  I  would  consult  him  if  I  were  drawing 
up  a  manifesto,  not  if  I  were  founding  an  association  that 
was  to  act  rather  than  talk.  We  are  the  men  that  have 
trained  Europe  in  the  art  of  conspiracy — we  Italians. 
No,  let  him  dream  his  dreams,  the  gentle  Arden." 


CHAP.  XVII.]      I  RETURN  FROM  THE  SOUTH  241 

Their  conference  was  breaking  up.  I  had  to  retreat 
quickly  toward  the  chapel,  and  I  ascended  to  the  dark 
old  battlements,  where  I  could  muse  at  leisure  on  this 
uncomfortable  scene.  The  bird,  I  thought,  is  not  yet 
limed;  but  he  is  hovering  round,  picking  up  the  sweet 
grain  that  has  been  scattered  for  him.  What  counter- 
attraction  would  draw  him  away  ?  I  knew  of  none  but 
his  religion ;  and  how  far  would  that  avail  ?  Then  I 
called  up  in  mental  vision  that  incident  in  the  painted 
chamber  which  revealed  to  me  how  deeply  Donna 
Costanza  suspected,  or  even  hated,  Tiberio  Sforza. 
The  accent  with  which  she  repulsed  him  was  a  sign  of 
instinctive  and  overwhelming  distrust ;  could  I  not  turn 
that  to  account?  I  made  up  my  mind  accordingly. 
The  arch-plotter  had  threads  in  all  directions ;  he  was 
effective  master  of  Santa  Fiora  and  his  banditti;  on 
terms  of  friendship  with  Don  Camillo,  and  possibly  with 
other  great  persons  in  this  extraordinary  Government, 
rebels  of  yesterday,  sovereign  rulers  to-day.  Neither 
did  I  question  that  his  influence  went  deeper  still  into 
the  gloom  where  anarchists  sharpened  their  poignards 
and  forged  their  thunderbolts.  Yet  a  brave  woman's 
hand  might  tear  this  web  to  pieces.  I  would  see  what 
could  be  done. 


1(5 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

THE    GREEK    THEATER   AT   TUSCULUM 

day  arrived  on  which  Lucera  was  coming  from 
his  Calabrian  forest    to    claim  Donna  Costanza's 
hand.     Every  one  spoke  of  it  as  a  settled  thing,  not  in 
public,  but  in  the  talk  which  plays  round   events  of 
which  the  shadow  is  falling  over  us. 

A  day  which  would  have  graced  some  more  delec- 
table match — the  heavens  one  stainless  sapphire,  blue 
gulfs  of  air,  immeasurable  as  the  eye  attempted  to 
fathom  them  ;  the  land  such  as  Spenser  would  have  chosen 
for  his  wedding-feast — blossoms  everywhere,  the  foli- 
age a  pure  delight,  fresh  like  sea-blooms,  on  the  margin 
of  the  hills,  or  along  the  edge  of  fields,  themselves, 
during  this  perfect  moment,  green  as  an  English  May. 
The  nightingales  were  singing  in  every  bush,  not  mel- 
ancholy, but  from  a  heart  of  fire,  that  would  not  suffer 
them  to  be  still,  as  they  trilled  and  shot  forth  long  luscious 
notes,  and  panted  with  excess  of  joy,  and  contended 
against  each  other,  in  cascades  and  torrents  of  headlong 
music — a  sweet  spring  ecstasy.  And  we  were  driving 
or  riding  through  the  lovely  land,  from  Roccaforte, 
between  the  mountains,  and  on  to  Tusculum — an  ex- 
pedition I  had  begged  of  Gaetano,  which  I  meant  to 
enjoy  before  Lucera  took  Costanza  with  him  and  my 
bitter-sweet  remembrance  of  the  Sorelli  had  turned  to 
pain. 

242 


CHAP.  XVIIL]    THE  GREEK  THEATER  AT  TUSCULUM    243 

A  day  of  the  troubadours,  full  of  strange  intoxication. 
The  three  women,  Costanza,  her  aunt,  and  Tarquinia 
— for  the  actress  had  lately  come  back  to  us — drove  at 
a  rapid  pace,  in  their  light  carriage,  and  we  young  men 
cantered  along,  running  races  when  the  fit  took  us,  and 
letting  the  spring  chase  down  our  veins,  with  a  light 
word  here,  and  an  allusion  to  old  historic  times  there, 
and  a  humming  of  the  gay  Italian  airs  that  broke  from 
one's  lips  by  instinct;  and  in  our  talk,  as  we  moved 
round  the  advancing  carriage,  we  became,  I  know  not 
how,  true  landscape-painters,  interpreting  the  noble 
sights  of  mountain,  sea,  and  garden,  not  so  much  by 
distinct  epithets  as  by  a  certain  transfusion  of  their 
spirit  into  what  we  were  saying.  The  recorded  con- 
versation would  tell  you  as  little  of  all  this  as  a  box  of 
colors  will  give  you  of  one  of  Turner's  flaming  skies.  But 
I  think  our  company  had  gathered  from  these  clumps  of 
holm-oak  and  flowering  chestnut  the  golden  bough  that 
Virgil  saw  growing  in  the  Forest  of  Diana,  through  the 
green  gloom  of  which  we  rode,  telling  one  another  its 
legend  in  half-remembered  lines  from  the  Sixth  ^neid. 
I  never  felt  more  deeply  the  magic  of  his  verse. 

The  expedition  lasted  many  hours.  We  had  taken 
the  longer  round,  so  as  to  include  a  gallop  on  the  edge 
of  the  crater  in  which  Nemi  sleeps,  coiled  up,  a  glitter- 
ing snake  in  its  hollow;  then  past  the  lake  and  city  of 
Albano  we  rode,  under  the  giant  boughs  that  overhang 
those  level  avenues,  the  gallerie,  which  take  you  on  by 
Castle  Gandolfo,  toward  Frascati.  But  we  turned,  at 
a  given  point,  to  the  right,  ascended  the  hills  once  more, 
and  so  reached  the  grassy  slopes  and  fringing  woods  of 
Tusculum.  Mountains  rose  on  every  side  as  on  the  rim 
of  an  amphitheater,  or  else  they  sank  into  mysterious 
overarched  glades,  or  laid  themselves  out  in  vales 
which  were  now  a  land  of  flowers,  dotted  here  and 
there  with  herds  of  the  fawn-colored,  mild-eyed  oxen 


244  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

conspicuous  by  their  wide  branching  horns,  where  they 
roamed  or  rested. 

Silenus,  clad  in  goatskins,  sat  on  a  boulder,  playing  to 
his  flock  some  curious  unending  strain,  with  the  Pan- 
dean reed  at  his  lips.  And  we  betook  ourselves  to 
the  shelter  that  Italians  love,  under  immense  branches 
through  which  the  sunshine  filtered  in,  and  there,  by 
running  water,  we  made,  I  think,  as  merry  a  meal  as 
any  of  the  great  old  Roman  fathers  could  have  wished, 
and  pleasanter  than  their  formal  banquets  in  the  villas 
of  which  scarcely  a  stone  was  discoverable.  High 
above  towered  the  arx,  or  citadel,  of  Telegonus,  or,  at 
least,  the  piles  of  rock  which  it  once  had  crested.  The 
kestrels  flew  around  with  a  scream;  the  Pandean  pipe 
whistled  to  sleepy  noonday  birds  that  sometimes 
answered  it:  else,  there  was  a  deep  silence,  hardly 
broken  by  our  talk  and  laughter.  We  were  lords  of 
Tusculum  and  these  heights. 

After  our  meal  we  went  up  to  spy  out  the  land. 
"  Always  that  enchanting  yet  so  forlorn  spectacle," 
said  Gaetano,  when  we  had  come  to  the  huge  black 
Cross  which  crowns  the  mountain.  "  There  is  the  Cam- 
pagna,  strewn  like  the  floor  of  ocean  with  wrecks  and 
treasures — a  sea  bounded  by  Soracte,  the  lion  that 
watches  couchant  over  its  everlasting  secret — our 
Roman  Sphynx,  crowned  with  stars  or  snows,  even 
in  this  magic  sunlight  solemn  as  death.  Where  are 
the  Imperial  people  ?  Seek  them  in  the  dust  on  which 
a  million  wild  flowers  have  sprung  up !  The  Campagna 
is  a  great  winding-sheet,  laid  upon  the  face  of  the  dead." 

Costanza  pointed  away  to  St.  Peter's,  lofty  even  at 
this  altitude.  "  There  is  Rome,"  she  said  proudly ; 
"  it  will  never  die.  Does  it  not  draw  all  nations  still  ? 
Have  you  lost  faith  in  it,  Gaetano?" 

We  were  standing  as  in  the  presence  of  something 
very  great,  beyond  words,  which  seemed  to  rebuke  us 


CHAP.  XVIIL]     THE  GREEK  THEATER  AT  TUSCULUM    245 

silently.  "  How  slight,  how  thin,  is  the  shadow  that 
we  cast,"  I  could  not  refrain  from  saying,  "  on  this 
eternal  background!  Consider  all  that  have  lived 
among  these  hills.  Your  kindred,  Don  Gaetano,  held , 
Tusculum,  Colonna,  Marino,  the  castles  round  about, 
for  hundreds  of  years ;  but,  pardon  me,  they  sink  out 
of  sight ;  and,  as  Donna  Costanza  says,  there  is  Rome ! 
Still  it  enthralls  the  world,  not  by  strength  or  violence, 
but  by  a  spell  more  profound  than  we  can  search  into 
— by  its  old  religion,  its  classic  memories,  its  beauty, 
its  pathos.  But,"  I  went  on  tremulously,  "who  are 
they  that  see  these  things  as  they  should  be  seen? 
Not  you  Romans,  ah,  no;  if  you  had  ever  seen  them 
as  we  see  them, — we  strangers  from  islands  or  conti- 
nents now  beginning  their  golden  prime, — you  would 
not  be  rent  into  factions  and  conspiracies;  you  would 
reckon  yourselves  the  knights  of  St.  Peter's  sepulcher, 
the  keepers  of  the  Roman  shrines,  Christian  or  Pagan, 
and  of  all  the  precious  things  they  hold — the  first  citi- 
zens of  Church  and  State.  Whereas,  for  a  thousand 
years,  you,  I  say,  Romans  of  Rome,  have  dipped  your 
hands  in  blood,  not  minding  what  befell  the  religion  or 
the  civilization  of  which  you  were  the  guardians.  That 
is  your  unpardonable  crime." 

The  Prince  was  struck  with  my  earnestness.  "  For 
what  are  you  pleading,  Ser  Ardente?"  he  inquired. 

But  Tiberio  broke  in.  "For  the  impossible!"  he 
cried.  "  I  think  I  have  heard  of  Plato's  city  of  philos- 
ophers ;  you  would  have  the  Romans  dedicate  themselves 
to  Humanity,  as  those  sublime  sages  were  supposed  to 
do.  Let  Humanity  take  care  of  itself.  What  I  admire  in 
these  medieval  nobles,  and  in  the  populus  to  which 
Rienzi  appealed,  is  their  passion  for  freedom ;  but  no 
one  is  free  where  all  are  equal.  Give  us  back,  I  say, 
the  Counts  of  Tusculum — the  strong  man  and  the  red 
hand!" 


246  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

Donna  Costanza  took  up  the  argument.  "  If  you 
love  strong  men,  Signer  Conte,  look  below  you,"  she 
said  in  her  fervent  tones.  "  Yes,  to  those  small  white 
cells  of  the  Camaldoli,  grouped  about  that  church  where 
the  bells  are  ringing.  Is  it  not  a  picture  of  peace, 
sweet  and  tranquil?  The  home  of  silence,  prayer, 
work,  self-sacrifice?  Those  are  my  heroes — the  aged 
men  in  white  raiment,  who  slay  their  passions  instead 
of  reddening  their  hands,  as  you  would  have  them  do. 
Why,"  she  went  on,  kindling  to  a  flame  of  eloquence, 
"  this  little  spot  in  the  Latin  Hills,  which  it  seems  one 
could  hold  like  a  pearl  up  to  the  light,  is  visible 
heaven.  But  your  strong  men  have  the  taint  of  fire 
and  blood  upon  them;  they  are  tyrants,  not  heroes." 

We  continued  exploring  the  landscape,  while  this 
argument  volleyed  about  us.  Camaldoli  was  a  page 
of  medieval  romance,  framed  in  the  woods  as  in  a 
border  illuminated,  strangely  inspiring  by  the  quiet 
which  it  breathed  from  a  distance.  I  did  not  want  to 
travel  down  or  see  it  nearer.  In  all  these  ancient 
things,  perspective  counts  for  much:  the  sense  that 
one  does  not  belong  to  them,  never  could  have  a  part 
in  their  life;  the  haze  of  faith  or  illusion  which  was 
necessary  to  their  existence.  And  so  I  would  not  go 
to  the  neighboring  monastery  of  San  Silvestro,  upon 
the  hill  that  rises  over  against  Tusculum,  where,  as 
Donna  Anastagia  informed  us,  there  was  an  authentic 
portrait  of  Saint  Theresa,  and  also  the  body  of  a  modern 
hermit,  still  undecayed.  It  was  enough  for  me  to  bring 
these  many  shades  of  color  into  the  same  painting; 
they  made  Tusculum  rich  with  complex  memories. 

But  Tiberio  was  led  away  by  the  Prince,  or  probably 
led  him,  to  the  tufted  alleys  of  the  Ruffinella;  it  was 
clear  they  had  much  to  debate.  And  I  went  wander- 
ing listlessly  in  the  direction  of  the  Latin  Vale,  and  by 
and  by  turned  and  came  down  to  the  ruins  of  the 
Greek  theater,  hoping  against  hope  that  when  the  ladies 


CHAP.  XVIII.]    THE  GREEK  THEATER  AT  TUSCULUM    247 

of  our  party  had  finished  their  prayers  at  San  Silvestro, 
some  happy  chance  might  bring  me  across  Donna  Cos- 
tanza.  The  day  was  fleeting  on :  if  I  lost  this,  I  should 
find  no  other  opportunity. 

But,  for  once,  I  was  not  unlucky.  The  Princess  was 
there — alone,  pacing  in  deep  thought  over  the  narrow 
stage,  flagged  with  lava,  from  which  the  outlook  extended 
wide  enough  to  give  our  meeting  a  public  and  unpremed- 
itated air.  On  the  tiers  of  seats  in  front  of  us  an  audi- 
ence might  have  watched  our  greeting.  Down  over  the 
wall  which  closed  in  the  stage  at  the  back  a  vine  had 
come  trailing  from  the  neighboring  vineyard,  and  a 
huge  old  fig-tree  had  thrust  its  arm  through  some 
crevice  in  the  rock,  as  though  demanding  worship  for 
Bacchus  even  now,  despite  the  empty  proscenium 
where  no  altar  smoked,  no  chorus  moved  to  the  ana- 
pests  or  circled  the  thymele.  There  stood  Costanza, 
in  the  mourning  weeds  that  she  always  wore  out  of 
doors,  inflicting  on  one  the  impression  rather  of  a 
priestess  than  of  a  maiden  for  whom  the  bridegroom 
was  on  the  threshold. 

Imagination  stirred  in  me  some  tragic  melody,  simple 
but  heart-subduing,  as  I  came  up  to  her. 

"  You  look  still  unhappy,  Signer  Arden,"  she  said 
in  her  soft  undertone.  "  Is  it  Lupo  and  Bice  that  make 
you  so?" 

"  The  children,  Signora,  and  these  hands.  Mine  are 
reddened,  as  I  told  you  in  the  cemetery,  with  blood  I 
need  not  have  spilled.  I  was  hoping  my  penance 
would  be  accepted  ;  but  the  gods  are  hard  to  reconcile." 

"  You  found  your  purse  where  you  left  it,"  she  said, 
as  if  pitying  me ;  "I  put  it  back  there  when  the  little 
ones  were  taken  home  again."  I  made  a  hasty  gesture. 
She  continued,  with  a  break  in  her  voice,  "  Perhaps  you 
blame  Costanza?  But  do  not,  Signer  Arden.  I  had 
Lupo  and  Bice  sent  to  school ;  but  Candia — " 

"Yes,  yes,  she  told  me  herself,  not  realizing  what 


248  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BooK  III. 

share  I  had  in  it  all.  And  you  did  not  fling  away  my 
offering?  Had  you  been  in  the  place  of  the  gods  you 
would  have  accepted  it?  Thanks,  my  deepest  thanks. 
I  feared—" 

"Hush,  Signer;  what  strange  words  you  English 
utter!  The  gods,  you  say.  But,  are  you,  then,  a 
Pagan?  I  am  sure  the  Madonna  did  not  frown  upon 
your  offering.  Be  not  so  troubled.  There  is  trouble 
enough  already." 

She  sighed,  and,  I  think,  would  have  put  the  question 
to  me  that  I  anticipated. 

"Enough,  my  dear  lady?  There  will  be  more,"  I 
said,  "  unless  you  can  hinder  it.  Now,  you  look 
alarmed.  We  have  the  same  name  in  our  hearts, 
which  I  will  dare  to  pronounce — the  Count!  Is  it 
not  so?" 

"  He  is  always  with  Gaetano,"  she  whispered.  "  Why 
did  they  leave  you,  and  go  down  to  the  Ruffinella? 
And  oh,  Signor  mio,  what  persuaded  you  to  bring  that 
dreadful  man  to  Roccaforte?" 

She  clasped  her  hands  with  a  most  forgetting  and 
tender  grief.  Her  expression,  always  full  of  courage 
and  light,  was  one  of  pensive  resolution,  not  uncertain 
at  all  of  herself,  as  I  could  see,  but  such  as  a  heavenly 
thing  might  put  on,  who  beheld  his  charge  falling  into 
a  peril  of  great  darkness.  I  knew  how  she  loved  Gae- 
tano. 

"You  would  do  everything  to  save  your  brother?" 
I  said. 

Her  smile  came  quickly.  "  I  would  give  my  life,  my 
heart,  for  him,"  she  answered.  "  But  there  is  one  thing 
I  never  would  do.  Your  eyes  ask  me  what  that  im- 
possible thing  may  be.  Alas !  it  is  a  fear  that  has  now 
drawn  close.  I  am  in  the  thick  of  that  cloud.  To-night 
the  Marchese  di  Lucera  arrives — "  She  stopped,  as 
one  whose  lips  are  twitched  with  intolerable  pain. 


CHAP.  XVIIL]    THE  GREEK  THEATER  AT  TUSCULUM    249 

"  Yes,  yes,"  I  said  eagerly,  "  the  Marchese  comes. 
We  all  know  why.  This  day  you  are  free — the  last  of 
your  days;  to-morrow — " 

"To-morrow  I  shall  be  no  less  free,"  Costanza  was 
saying  in  my  delighted  ear,  "  but  I  shall  have  disap- 
pointed my  dear  father,  and  put  a  terrible  estrangement 
between  Gaetano  and  myself.  I  cannot  marry  Lucera. 
You  should  know  this,  that  you  may  judge  of  my  future 
influence  with  your  friend." 

The  lights  and  music  of  a  golden  play  flashed  upon 
me  when  I  heard  these  never-to-be-forgotten  words. 
The  sun  danced  in  the  heavens ;  Tusculum,  with  all  its 
flowers  and  little  streams,  broke  into  rejoicing;  the 
glades  sent  up  a  triumphal  chorus  from  their  hidden 
depths.  Fairyland  unfolded  its  gleaming  gates,  through 
which  I  leaped  suddenly  to  happiness. 

"  Donna  Costanza,  what  are  you  telling  me  ?  "  I  cried 
in  a  voice  that  could  not  conceal  its  tumultuous  joy  and 
fear.  "You  will  not  take  Lucera?  You  refuse  him? 
Free  to-morrow  as  to-day?  But,  oh,  if  you  are  free, 
can  you  look  upon  me  that  has  worshiped  the  steps 
of  your  feet?  One  that,  when  he  thinks  of  Paradise, 
turns  to  his  remembrance  of  you?"  I  may  have  said 
much  else,  and  yet  more  passionately.  But  a  glance  at 
the  dark-vestured  figure  sobered  me. 

"  I  am  sorry — no,  glad  in  a  certain  strange  way, 
Signer  mio,"  said  Costanza  at  last,  her  face  very  pale, 
but  there  was  a  brightness  in  the  eyes  that  spoke  of 
tears  kept  down — "  yes,  glad  and  sorry.  You  let  me 
see  into  your  heart.  It  is  clear  to  me  as  crystal.  That 
you  should  think  so  well  of  me,  for  that  I  do  thank  you ; 
and  for  the  courage — surely  it  was  courage — that  kept 
you  silent  until  now,  I  am  greatly  honored" — the 
tears  fell  quietly,  without  hysteria,  not  without  emo- 
tion. After  a  little  she  resumed,  "  We  will  not  speak 
of  this  to  any  one.  Be  braver  still;  yet,  if  you  find 


250  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

help  in  the  thought  of — Costanza — how  shall  I  forbid 
you?  Ah,  no.  But  for  me  there  is  no  marriage — 
perhaps  for  you  none." 

I  had  not  recovered  from  my  draught  of  happiness. 
These  words  were  incapable  of  so  changing  that  wizard's 
cup.  The  sun  danced,  the  May  breezes  sang;  Tuscu- 
lum  was  Cithasron,  with  echoing  horns  and  the  wild 
Maenads  shouting. 

"  But  have  you  vowed  a  vow  not  to  marry  ?  "  I  ex- 
claimed. "That  alone  could  keep  us  asunder.  What 
signifies  the  rest?" 

I  was  not  asking  even  that  question  ;  but  the  rush  of 
feelings  would  find  a  voice ;  Costanza's  mild  rebuke  fell 
unheeded. 

"  My  secret  is  mine,"  she  answered,  with  a  marvelous 
rosy  light  upon  her  features.  "Ask  me  nothing;  but 
tell  me  now  in  what  manner  I  am  to  draw  Gaetano 
away  from  the  Count.  If  it  is  not  done  to-day,  see 
how  impossible  it  will  be  after  I  have  refused  the 
Marchese  Sismondo." 

It  was  already  impossible.  The  winds  were  sweep- 
ing every  hope  of  rescue  into  the  Mediterranean,  where 
the  sun  was  going  down.  Costanza  had  scarcely  ut- 
tered her  last  words,  when  the  two  men  came  up  from 
the  Ruffinella,  the  other  ladies  joined  us,  and  we  began 
our  long  drive  homeward.  I  could  say  nothing  in 
private  to  the  Signorina.  As  we  reached  the  castle, 
lights  in  many  windows,  servants  running  to  and  fro, 
and  a  general  air  of  preparation  for  some  joyous  event, 
announced  that  Lucera  had  arrived  and  that  guests 
were  in  the  Great  Hall  to  meet  him. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

MY  LAST  DAY  IN  UDOLPHO 

play  that  now  went  forward  was  acted  partly 
_  behind  closed  doors,  but  with  such  haste  and  fury 
that  one  day  sufficed,  by  a  dreadful  unity  of  time,  to 
bring  about  the  catastrophe.  In  this,  as  in  every  de- 
cisive moment  of  my  life,  I  stood  alone.  But  why  talk 
as  if  my  fate  only  were  involved  ?  We  were  all  strik- 
ing at  one  another  in  a  blind  hazard ;  those  that  loved 
most  did,  perhaps,  the  deadliest  mischief. 

At  the  dinner-party  that  evening  Lucera  was  in  high 
spirits,  loud  and  gay.  I  think  he  had  not  expected  to 
meet  me  among  the  guests  at  Roccaforte;  but  who 
was  the  insignificant  Englishman  where  noble  names 
filled  all  ears  and  mouths?  A  jettatore,  no  doubt. 
The  Marchese,  when  I  happened  to  be  looking  at  him, 
turned  pale,  though  handling  his  sprig  of  rue  ostenta- 
tiously. With  Tiberio  he  was  very  gracious.  They 
had  met  several  times  before,  and  they  talked  away, 
not  of  the  plans  that  lay  near  Sforza's  heart,  but  of 
pedigrees,  love  adventures,  Naples,  and  the  good  old 
times  of  King  Ferdinand,  whom  Lucera's  father  had 
served  at  Poggio  Reale,  when  better  men  were  lan- 
guishing in  prison.  Tiberio  had  the  secret  of  influence ; 
he  never  seemed  to  choose  his  own  topics,  but  listened, 
smiled,  laughed,  and  cared  supremely  for  the  man  who 

251 


252  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

was  boring  him  to  interminable  lengths.  Had  he  se- 
duced Gaetano  yesterday?  He  would  seduce  the 
Marchese  to-morrow. 

But  on  the  morrow  the  scene  changed.  I  knew  that 
some  great  thing  must  happen,  and  I  waited  in  front  of 
the  closed  doors  until  by  voice  or  motion  within  I  could 
conjecture  how  the  play  went.  A  mere  formality! 
Lucera  had  long  since  obtained  the  Duke's  permission 
to  pay  his  addresses  in  Roccaforte,  according  to  the 
jealous  South  Italian  custom — now  a  little  infringed 
upon  by  modern  and  sentimental  innovations — which 
reckons  the  friendship  of  the  father  as  equivalent  to  the 
daughter's  love.  There  was  to  be  a  meeting  in  the 
Duke's  apartment,  with  Gaetano  looking  on,  between 
the  two  young  people,  their  consent  exchanged,  the 
last  step  taken  before  signing  the  contract  that  night  in 
a  brilliant  assembly.  We  mere  guests,  lounging  about 
the  corridors,  saw  Donna  Costanza  pass  with  her  aunt 
into  the  room  where  Lucera  and  the  Sorelli,  father  and 
son,  were  waitmg.  The  lady  was  smiling,  but  her 
bright  eyes  and  quick  step  betrayed  a  fever  in  the 
blood,  which  the  occasion  would  naturally  call  forth. 
Was  she  going,  after  all,  to  take  the  man?  I  did  not 
yet  comprehend  that  heroic  temper.  The  air  seemed 
charged  with  electricity.  I  saw  that  Tiberio  lingered, 
as  I  was  doing,  in  expectation  of  news ;  but  we  never 
talked  now  except  when  others  were  present.  He 
knew  that  I  detested  him.  An  hour  went  by.  Had 
nothing  happened?  All  at  once  there  was  a  stir,  an 
agitation,  a  violent  outcry,  accompanied  with  the  rush- 
ing of  feet  along  the  passages,  and  followed  by  the 
ringing  of  various  bells.  Ser  Angelo,  the  steward, 
crossed  over  the  courtyard  hastily  on  his  way  to  the 
stables.  I  held  him  for  a  moment,  much  against  his 
will.  A  good-tempered,  placid  nature,  serviceable  and 
easy,  at  this  time  he  was  in  a  hot  fit  of  impatience. 


CHAP.  XIX.]        MY  LAST  DAY  IN   UDOLPHO  253 

"  By  and  by,  Signer,"  he  exclaimed ;  "  let  me  go  now. 
I  am  in  a  hurry;  the  devil  is  at  my  heels." 

But  I  kept  fast  hold  of  him.  "  What  devil  do  you 
mean  ?  "  said  I.  "  Surely  not  the  Marchese  di  Lucera  ?  " 

"Who  else  but  the  Marchese?"  he  said  snappishly, 
pulling  himself  away  from  me.  "  Yes,  Lucera,  and  only 
Lucera.  The  Signorina — let  me  go,  I  beg — she  has 
refused  this  rich  marriage;  all  is  in  confusion;  the 
Marquis  calls  for  his  horses ;  the  great  dinner  must  be 
put  off.  I  never  saw  my  master  so  broken ;  as  for  Don 
Gaetano — ugh,  a  whirlwind  in  March!  Let  me  go,  I 
say." 

The  man  tore  off ;  others  came  running.  Apparently 
our  Neapolitan  was  not  going  to  take  his  defeat  in 
silence;  there  would  be  shouting  and  clamor  at  all 
events.  But  where  was  Costanza?  What  would  be- 
come of  her?  She  was  absolutely  in  the  Duke's  power, 
and  he  might  constrain  her  yet.  While  I  was  piecing 
out  the  incidents  of  this — I  knew  not  how  to  call  it — 
this  tragedy,  which  certain  comic  touches  made  more 
singularly  impressive,  the  rejected  lover  was  calling  for 
his  steed,  the  young  men  were  riding  with  messages — 
I  saw  them  galloping  in  all  directions — to  put  off  guests 
who  would  be  most  unwelcome.  The  castle  had  sud- 
denly awakened  to  a  sense  of  present  disaster  instead 
of  brooding  on  medieval  crimes.  While  these  images 
flitted  through  my  brain,  Tiberio  came  up  and  spoke 
to  me. 

"  Is  it  true,  Signor  Arden,  that  Donna  Costanza  has 
thrown  over  Lucera?"  he  asked. 

"  Ser  Angelo  tells  me  as  much.  How  should  I 
know?"  was  my  angry  answer. 

"  Pardon,  my  dear  friend.  It  is  a  moment  to  be 
calm.  Of  course  you  would  not  know." 

"  Signor  Tiberio,"  I  said,  calling  him  by  that  name, 
"  if  you  desire  to  be  informed  about  matters  which 


254  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

concern  neither  you  nor  me,  there  is  Lucera  coming 
down  the  great  staircase.  Ask  him  yourself,  if  you 
dare." 

"Certainly  I  dare,"  he  answered,  darting  a  venomous 
look  at  me. 

I  was  not  astonished;  he  had  that  gift  of  sudden 
resolution.  But  I  watched  them  both  curiously.  A 
hundred  passions  were  chasing  over  the  dark  features 
of  the  Neapolitan,  who  was  cloaked  and  spurred,  as  for 
instant  departure.  When  Tiberio  accosted  him  he 
started  back,  as  if  shot,  gave  a  furious  reply,  and  was 
for  passing  on.  Then  the  other  whispered  half  a  dozen 
words  and  Lucera  turned,  hesitated,  asked  question 
upon  question,  nodded,  and  broke  into  a  laugh,  and 
finally  took  Sforza  by  the  hand,  which  he  wrung  with 
a  fierce  grasp.  What  did  this  pantomime  signify? 
Not  a  word  of  their  dialogue  had  reached  my  ears,  but 
I  could  perceive  it  made  or  left  them  friends,  not  enemies. 
The  Marchese  ran  down  the  steps  with  a  clatter ;  Tiberio 
followed.  Again  they  were  whispering  and  exchanging 
salutes.  Immediately  afterward  Lucera  hurried  to  the 
gate,  where  his  man  was  waiting  with  a  magnificent 
pair  of  bays.  He  mounted  one,  the  groom  took  the 
other,  and  I  saw  them  going  at  a  mad  pace,  fire  strik- 
ing up  under  the  horses'  hoofs,  down  the  precipitous 
path  which  led  from  Roccaforte  toward  Velletri.  They 
would  be  in  Rome,  if  that  was  their  destination,  in  less 
than  three  hours. 

The  tumult  in  the  castle  subsided.  Tiberio,  passing 
me  without  a  syllable,  went  through  the  gateway,  above 
which  that  dagger  was  idly  held  in  the  hand  which  I 
always  dreamed  should  have  struck  him  down  when  he 
entered  Roccaforte.  I  saw  no  sign  of  the  Duke  or 
Gaetano,  and  being  restless,  and  in  an  excitable  fashion 
happy,  now  that  Lucera  had  vanished,  I  made  my  way 
into  the  ancient  woods,  pulled  some  of  the  great  spires 


CHAP.  XIX.]        MY  LAST  DAY  IN  UDOLPHO  255 

of  the  chestnuts  under  which  I  was  taking  a  stroll,  and 
wasted  more  hours  than  I  could  have  calculated  in  sun- 
shine-fancies and  pleasant  dreams  of  a  future  that  my 
fairy  godmother,  if  I  had  one,  would  now  be  devising 
for  me.  Thus  I  had  rambled  on,  by  thicket  and  copse, 
until  I  found  myself  near  the  huge  boulder,  now  over- 
grown with  creepers  and  long  vines,  where,  as  Tarquinia 
said,  she  had  encountered  the  Robin  Hood  page  of 
Tiberio.  I  looked  and  rubbed  my  eyes.  The  page 
was  there  in  his  forester's  green  attire.  Close  by  him 
stood  Santa  Fiora.  They  had  only  just  met.  The 
page,  Ascanio — for  I  knew  him  at  once — was  talking 
fast,  pointing  in  certain  directions,  as  though  to  explain 
some  purpose  which  involved  a  knowledge  of  the  topog- 
raphy, and  coming  back,  I  thought,  to  sentences  already 
uttered.  Santa  Fiora  did  not  answer  at  length,  but  his 
motions  testified  acquiescence  and  understanding.  Both 
were  so  absorbed  that  I  might  have  taken  fair  aim  at 
them ;  and,  beyond  a  doubt,  had  Gaetano  stood  by  my 
side  he  would  have  done  it.  My  wisdom  was  to  remain 
motionless  and  well  out  of  sight.  After  more  conversa- 
tion they  parted,  Santa  Fiora  moving  on  paths  which 
would  bring  him  out  toward  Velletri,  the  lad  resting  in  a 
thoughtful  attitude,  his  plumed  cap  in  his  hand,  by  the 
great  stone.  I  allowed  a  sensible  time  to  elapse ;  but  as 
he  did  not  move  I  determined  on  getting  speech  of  him. 

"  Good  morning,  Ascanio,"  I  said,  strolling  up  the 
glade  as  though  I  had  only  just  come  that  way.  "  You 
are  expecting  your  master,  I  suppose  ?  " 

The  lad  saluted  me  and  deliberately  put  on  his  cap. 
"  Did  he  tell  you  that,  Signer?"  was  his  reply,  with  a 
perceptible  touch  of  irony. 

"  Or  you  have  seen  him,  and  brought  a  message  to 
my  friend  Santa  Fiora,  whom  I  recognized  in  talk  with 
you  a  moment  ago." 

The  shot  told.     Even  on  that  pallid  face  there  was  a 


256  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

tremulous  flush.  "Is  Santa  Flora  your  friend?"  he 
inquired,  as  if  doubtful  how  far  he  could  put  confidence 
in  me. 

"  How  should  I  know  him  otherwise  ?  My  friend,  or 
at  least  my  correspondent — eh,  Ascanio?  And  your 
master's  friend.  But  what  is  he  doing  in  these  parts? 
I  understood  him  to  be  a  denizen  of  the  Mattese.  So 
you  had  a  message  for  him  from  the  Count?" 

Ascanio  looked  me  straight  in  the  eyes  and  laughed 
a  clear,  ringing  laugh,  as  frank  as  a  nightingale's  trill. 
"  Whether  I  have  seen  my  master  or  no  I  shall  not  tell 
you,  Signer.  And  what  I  was  saying  to  Santa  Fiora, 
or  Santa  Fiora  to  me,  you  will  find  out  when  the  time 
comes.  But  one  thing  I  have  to  warn  you — and  it  is 
pure  kindness — the  sooner  you  leave  these  mountains 
the  safer  you  will  be.  Go  away  from  Rome ;  put  the 
Alps  between  yourself  and  Santa  Fiora.  Your  business 
at  Roccaforte  is  done.  Why  do  you  stay,  then  ?  " 

All  this  was  given  out  with  incredible  quickness  in  a 
tone  between  impertinence  and  good  will,  as  if  deliver- 
ing a  set  form  of  words  that  he  had  learned  by  heart. 
How  much,  I  asked  myself,  did  the  lad  know  of  my 
proceedings  since  I  had  come  to  Rome?  There  was 
one  who  could  inform  him,  had  he  chosen — my  young 
Apollo,  the  bandit  Carluccio.  But  I  would  not  think 
he  had  betrayed  me. 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  take  your  advice  soon,  Ascanio,"  I 
said,  musing  on  his  romantic  appearance  and  innocent, 
saucy  ways.  "  But  you,  too,  mio  caro,  why  do  you 
stay?  If  Santa  Fiora  and  your  master  are  such  men 
as  we  know,  entangled  in  plots  and  wickedness,  do  you 
mean  to  give  them  your  young  life?  Come,  here  is  a 
bargain.  I  will  go  to  England  on  condition  that  you 
come  with  me." 

"  What!  I  with  you,  Signer?  Ah,  heaven,  how  droll 
you  are!  Ah,  how  droll!  I — and  leave  my  master?  " 


CHAP.  XIX.]        MY  LAST  DAY  IN   UDOLPHO  257 

The  light-hearted  elf,  or  woodland  sprite,  as  he  seemed, 
was  laughing  with  a  sudden  boyishness;  then  he 
stopped,  and  I  saw  he  was  crying  impetuously,  as  a 
child  that  has  been  threatened  with  a  beating.  "  Away, 
away!"  he  exclaimed,  striking  at  me  with  his  plumed 
cap.  "  It  is  true,  as  every  one  says,  you  have  the  evil 
eye;  you  bring  bad  luck.  What  made  you  spit  such 
a  word  at  me  as  '  leave  my  master '  ?  I  spit  it  back  at 
you — there,"  and  the  lad  hissed  like  an  adder.  "  Do  not 
you  come  between  me  and  the  Count.  I  am  his — only 
his,  to  do  with  me  whatever  he  will.  Ah,  take  your 
ugly  face  somewhere  else,  fascinatore!  I  spit  on  you 
and  defy  you." 

He  turned  swiftly,  coursed  down  a  track  among  the 
thick-set  undergrowths,  and  was  gone  before  I  could 
tell  whither  he  had  vanished.  There  is  something 
magnetic  in  genuine  passion;  moreover,  I  was  throb- 
bing yet  from  the  enchantment  of  that  colloquy  on 
Tusculum  with  Donna  Costanza,  and  I  felt  in  Ascanio's 
language  and  bearing  an  intense  devotion  to  his  master, 
such  as  leads  youth  along  the  highest  summits  of  hero- 
ism or  plunges  it  into  abysmal  deeps.  The  child  was  be- 
witched; no  persuasion  could  undo  the  effects  of  that 
evil  eye. 

Yes,  I  concluded,  turning  home,  it  was  likely  that  he 
had  met  Tiberio  by  appointment ;  that  a  message  had 
been  passed  on  to  Santa  Fiora ;  and  that  we  should  hear 
the  thunder  only  when  we  had  seen  the  lightning. 
One  day  had  made  all  the  difference.  Gaetano  would 
be  deaf  now  to  the  warnings  from  Costanza. 

I  was  within  a  bowshot  of  the  Madonna  delle  Grazie, 
in  a  sequestered  and  lovely  dell,  round  as  a  cup,  when 
Gaetano  stood  before  me. 

Until  I  saw  his  face,  in  which  it  was  impossible  not  to 
read  a  tragic  expression,  I  had  felt  all  the  morning  an 
absurd  but  intense  happiness.  The  words  that  sang 

17 


258  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

round  my  heart  were  those  which  Costanza  had  spoken 
on  Tusculum,  "  Free  to-morrow  as  to-day  " ;  and  she 
was  free.  Lucera,  galloping  toward  Rome,  ended  the 
long  chapter  of  their  supposed  but  unnatural  engage- 
ment. How  did  that  alter  my  prospects?  I  could  not 
say ;  but  I  rejoiced.  In  this  little  dell,  where  May  was 
playing  its  frolic  with  all  beauteous  leaves  and  blossoms, 
rippling  the  waters  of  a  tiny  streamlet — one  of  the  in- 
numerable fountains  cast  abroad  by  the  great  limestone 
hills — and  drawing  down  the  sun  itself  to  a  game  of 
hide-and-seek,  one  might  have  dreamed  a  lover's  dream, 
with  Costanza  for  its  goddess  leaning  over  the  rapt 
Endymion.  I  had,  perhaps,  fallen  into  such  a  fancy, 
the  glow  of  which  passing  on  now  to  Gaetano's  olive 
cheek,  he  appeared  to  me  at  once  tender  and  formidable 
— a  man  to  worship,  yet  with  some  undercurrent  of 
dread.  The  sun,  doubtless,  gave  him  a  portion  of  his 
radiance,  my  imaginative  affection  the  rest.  He  was 
dressed  as  for  a  journey. 

"Are  you  going  away,  Don  Gaetano?"  I  asked  in  a 
cheery  tone. 

His  eyes  flashed.  I  could  have  thought  my  accent, 
affectedly  careless,  smote  him  like  a  whip.  He  drew  a 
pace  nearer. 

"  Signer  Ardente,"  said  the  young  man,  putting 
pressure  on  his  voice,  that  else  would  have  sprung  at 
my  throat,  "  I  am  for  Rome  within  the  hour.  I  must 
ask  your  company." 

His  hand  trembled  and  fell  with  a  military  motion  as 
on  the  hilt  of  a  scabbard.  He  was  fearfully  shaken, 
biting  his  lip,  as  I  perceived,  until  the  blood  came,  and 
moving  uneasily  with  the  discomfort  of  a  man  into 
whose  face  the  sun  is  shining. 

"  I  will  go  with  you  to  Rome — to  the  world's  end, 
Don  Gaetano.  You  may  count  upon  my  friendship." 
I  would  have  said  more,  but  he  cut  me  short. 


CHAP.  XIX.]       MY  LAST  DAY  IN  UDOLPHO  259 

"Indeed?  On  your  friendship?  Your  love,  too,  I 
dare  say.  Are  you  so  deeply  attached  to  the  House  of 
Sorelli?  But  come,  sir — to  Rome!  We  have  business 
there,  you  and  I." 

The  meaning  of  these  muttered  and  strangled  sen- 
tences I  could  not  immediately  make  out.  Immense 
rage,  irony,  resolution;  so  much  was  palpable  to  my 
feeling,  but  directed  against  whom?  Did  the  Prince 
intend  a  quarrel  with — with  Lucera? 

"  There  is  something  strange  in  your  voice,  Don  Gae- 
tano,"  I  said  quietly,  not  making  too  much  of  it. 
"  Surely  you  are  not  following  the  Marchese  Sismondo 
to  the  Porta  San  Giovanni?  I  saw  him  ride  off  a  few 
hours  ago.  You  have  never  resolved  on  a  duel  with 
him,  though  you  look  so  fiercely?  Yes,"  in  answer 
to  his  silent  questioning,  "  I  have  been  told  what  has 
taken  place." 

Then  the  deep  voice  broke  on  me  in  thunder.  "  Did 
my  sister,  did  Costanza  tell  you,  scoundrel  that  you  are  ?  " 

I  put  him  back  with  a  motion  of  my  hands.  "  No 
nearer,  Prince.  Not  an  inch !  Whom  do  you  call  by 
such  a  name — not  Arden  Massiter?" 

"  Yes,  Arden  Massiter,  my  guest,  my  friend,  the  man 
that  saved  my  life,"  he  said  with  extreme  bitterness, 
tasting  every  word  as  if  to  feel  how  nauseous  it  was, 
and  striking  his  forehead  in  despair.  "Yes,  Arden,  I 
grant  all  this ;  I  cannot  deny  it.  Would  to  God  I  could ! 
But  grant  it  a  thousand  times,  you  are  only  the  more 
an  atrocious  scoundrel,  and  I  mean  to  kill  you.  Come 
away,  I  say ;  pack  up,  drive  into  Rome,  and  find  your 
seconds.  Among  so  many  English  you  will  have  at 
least  one  friend." 

If  I  were  to  die  for  it  I  must  have  laughed.  The 
hair  bristled  on  this  lion's  brow ;  but  I  laughed — a 
loud,  provoking  laugh,  fitly  to  be  answered  with  a 
stroke  across  the  mouth.  "  You  will  fight  and  kill  me, 


260  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

Gaetano  mio  ?  "  I  exclaimed,  while  he  continued  gazing 
at  me  in  astonishment.  "  Povero  mio  Signore,  don't 
you  know  Englishmen  never  fight  duels?  If  you  want 
that  satisfaction,  pursue  after  Lucera." 

"  Then  you  are  a  coward  as  well  as  a  sneak,"  he 
said,  after  a  moment  of  passionate  reflection,  during 
which,  I  am  certain,  had  he  been  wearing  a  sword  he 
would  have  thrust  it  into  me.  "  You  steal  the  hearts 
of  our  girls;  but,  poltroon,  you  will  not  meet  their 
brothers  in  the  field!  Must  I  have  you  beaten  like  a 
dog  by  my  stable-boys?  " 

He  approached,  and  would  have  laid  a  hand  upon 
my  collar. 

"  Hands  off,  Gaetano/'  I  shouted,  "  or  by  the  living 
God  I  will  break  your  heck !  No,  we  English  fight  no 
duels,  and  we  steal  no  hearts.  Hands  off,  I  tell  you." 
He  had  already  grappled  me;  but  I  was  much  the 
stronger  man  of  the  two,  with  muscles  which  constant 
exercise  in  the  open  air  had  made  like  whipcord — and 
he  knew  it,  for  we  had  often  fenced  and  even  wrestled 
together.  So  now,  when  his  grasp  was  on  me,  I  shook 
it  off,  throwing  him  to  some  distance.  He  stumbled, 
rose  up  with  quivering  nostrils  and  eyes  aflame,  intent 
upon  a  second  assault;  but  I  looked  straight  into  his 
countenance,  saying,  "  Gaetano,  if  we  must  fight,  we 
will.  Only  not  here.  Tell  me,  first,  in  what  I  have 
done  you  wrong." 

"In  what?"  he  cried  vehemently,  dashing  the  drops 
of  sweat  from  his  forehead.  I  thought,  even  at  an  in- 
stant so  engrossing,  of  the  marble  attitude  of  some  god 
in  the  Vatican,  heroic  and  wrathful.  "In  what?"  he 
repeated.  "  Have  you  not  made  love  to  my  sister,  en- 
trapped her  to  private  interviews,  persuaded  her  to 
break  off  the  match  with  Lucera?  And  in  what  have 
you  offended  is  your  question !  Ah,  Madonna  Santis- 
sima,  these  English— these  English!" 


CHAP.  XIX.]        MY  LAST  DAY  IN   UDOLPHO  261 

Here  was  a  deadly  coil.  How  to  make  him  under- 
stand? I  did  not  reply,  as  another  might  have  done, 
by  one  sharp  negative  which,  after  all,  would  be  the 
simple  truth  of  the  situation.  He  felt,  by  this  deep 
silence,  that  we  were  beginning  to  fence,  as  it  were,  in 
the  dark ;  and  he  waited  till  my  voice  should  acquaint 
him  where  to  strike.  Still  I  considered  my  next  words, 
and  answered  nothing. 

"  You  acknowledge  it  all,  then, — the  treason  that 
wipes  out  our  friendship  with  a  bloody  smear?"  said 
the  Prince.  "  Why,  man,  you  are  not  clean  enough  for 
a  gentleman  to  touch  you.  Good  day,  and  get  you 
gone."  He  had  taken  a  stride  across  the  dingle  and 
was  climbing  the  hill  before  I  could  find  my  voice. 

"  Don  Gaetano,"  at  length  I  cried  with  ringing  em- 
phasis, "  come  back  one  instant.  I  have  something  to 
say.  Come  back,  or  you  will  be  sorry  the  longest  day 
you  live." 

At  that  he  turned,  moved  reluctantly  to  the  place 
which  he  had  quitted,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  me  with 
ineffable  disgust.  "Will  you  confess  now?"  he 
said. 

I  answered  him  steadily,  "  There  is  not  much  to  con- 
fess. But  you  are  welcome  to  it.  I  have  been  in  love 
with  Donna  Costanza  from  the  moment  I  saw  her.  It 
is  true ;  I  know  it  at  this  hour ;  I  did  not  know  it  then. 
Yesterday,  in  the  theater  at  Tusculum,  I  told  her — do 
you  hear,  Gaetano? — I  told  her  less  than  this,  but 
enough.  Never  before  did  I  breathe  to  your  sister  one 
syllable  of  my  feelings.  That  is  all  I  have  to  say." 

"  And  what  was  her  reception  of  your  suit  ? — you  do 
not  tell  me  that." 

"  No,  and  I  never  will.  Except  only  that  it  has 
made  no  difference  to  her  dealing  with  Lucera." 

"  None  ?  You  lie,  it  seems  to  me,  Ser  Ardente,  too 
innocently.  What  ground  has  my  sister  for  declining 


262  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

a  match  that  we  all  had  set  our  hearts  upon,  if  not  this 
infatuation  for  a  stranger?  " 

At  these  words  May  began  to  carol  about  me  with 
all  its  sweet  madrigals  and  resonances.  Could  they  be 
true  ?  "  Oh,  did  Costanza  send  you  with  that  heavenly 
message?"  I  exclaimed,  quite  out  of  myself,  "and  you 
would  set  a  foil  to  it,  my  Prince,  with  your  challenges 
and  your  threatenings ?  Consummate  actor!" 

Of  such  an  outburst,  as  was  natural,  Gaetano,  who  had 
never  himself,  so  far  as  I  knew,  been  in  love,  could  make 
neither  sense  nor  reason.  "  You  are  mad,  Signer,"  he 
answered  testily,  "  she  did  not  mention  your  name.  But 
why  refuse  Sismondo,  if  you  have  not  cast  a  spell  upon 
her?" 

My  rhapsody  had  perplexed  his  thoughts ;  for  it 
would  never  have  been  uttered  by  a  triumphant  suitor 
unless  he  was  cherishing  some  deep-laid  plans. 

"Why  refuse  him?"  I  echoed  with  a  sigh.  "Per- 
haps, being  so  devout,  she  wishes  to  take  the  veil.  I 
know  Hagedorn  thought  so." 

He  shook  his  head  with  its  golden-brown  curls,  and 
looked  more  angry  than  before.  "  No,  it  is  something 
else.  It  is  you,  and  your  malocchio.  Aye,  stare  at 
me ;  I  can  return  your  glance ;  I  am  not  afraid  of  you, 
though  all  the  country  is.  You  know  it;  I  see  it  in 
your  malignant  smile.  But  if  you  did  not  speak  of  love 
to  Costanza,  why,  let  me  ask,  did  you  talk  with  her  a  full 
hour  in  the  cemetery  ?  What  business  of  any  sort  had 
you  with  the  Princess?" 

I  gave  a  sudden  start  when  he  had  thrown  out  this 
question.  The  serpent  of  which  I  was  enduring  the 
poisonous  fang  had  lifted  its  head  in  the  grass.  Not 
Costanza  had  spoken,  but  Tiberio — the  master  spirit  to 
whom  Candia  and  all  evil  things  in  the  vicinity  owed 
their  allegiance.  Should  I  reveal  these  hidden  trag- 
edies of  the  Camorra?  Then  Gaetano's  sword  would 


CHAP.  XIX.]        MY  LAST  DAY  IN   UDOLPHO  263 

be  in  the  villain's  heart.  And  what  afterward?  No, 
the  secret  lay  on  my  tongue;  yet  I  was  compelled  to 
swallow  it  back. 

"  My  friend,"  I  said  at  last,  "  I  grieve  you  and  myself 
— to  no  purpose.  Again  I  swear  that  until  yesterday 
I  never  spoke  of  love  to  Donna  Costanza.  Nor  shall  I 
ever  speak  of  it  again.  I  have  taken  leave  of  Rocca- 
forte.  I  will  go  to  Rome;  you  stay  here,  and  look 
well  to  the  dangers  that  lie  in  ambush  on  your  path." 

He  was  listening,  intently  but  unconvinced, 

"  Do  not,"  I  resumed,  "  trust  any  one.  You  have 
taunted  me  as  a  coward  and  a  sneak.  I  am  neither. 
You  know  whether  I  can  fence;  you  will  allow  that  I 
have  a  strong  and  supple  wrist.  And  you  have  seen  me 
shoot.  Nevertheless,  I  will  not  send  you  my  seconds 
or  take  notice  of  yours,  should  you  send  them.  And," 
I  concluded,  with  a  sudden  fever  in  my  heart  and  eyes, 
"  take  this  last  word.  I  will  never  set  foot  in  your 
castle  until  you,  Gaetano — mark,  I  say  you  and  not 
any  other — bring  me  back  again." 

"Ay!  wait  till  then,"  he  said  grimly,  with  a  lurid 
gleam  upon  his  brow  where  the  sun,  dusky  through  I 
know  not  what  scarlet  leaves,  was  resting  on  him.  No 
more  farewell  than  that!  He  went  swiftly  up  the 
glade ;  and  I,  when  his  footsteps  on  the  rocky  soil  had 
quite  died  away,  turned  and  with  a  fast-beating  pulse 
set  out  for  Rome. 

The  day  was  declining.  As  I  came  on  the  open 
road,  below  the  village,  on  one  side  the  sea  glistening, 
and  to  my  right  Roccaforte  with  all  its  gateways,  tow- 
ers, and  roofs — the  castle  supreme  over  church  and 
piazza — I  saw  a  singular  vision.  Clouds  had  arisen  in 
the  east,  which  a  fiery  sunset  was  painting  in  every 
imaginable  tint  of  purple,  as  if  the  sky  had  become  a 
volcano  and  were  pouring  out  smoke  and  flame  mingled 
together.  From  base  to  battlement  Roccaforte  seemed 


264  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

on  fire ;  the  stones  of  its  mighty  buildings  shone  with  a 
crimson  russet,  every  line  visible;  and  all  its  windows 
blazed  in  saffron,  with  topazes  instead  of  glass,  and 
jewels  dyed  in  the  sun,  a  luster  that  no  eye  could  bear 
to  look  upon.  The  beauty,  the  horror,  the  fascination 
of  a  spectacle  so  rare  excited  and  thrilled  me.  I 
watched  until  the  scarlet  faded  and  the  jewels  were 
quenched.  I  had  seen  Roccaforte  as  a  specter  in  the 
sky,  this  death-light  upon  its  face,  its  story  of  battle 
and  crime  legible  to  those  who  had  an  inward  capacity 
of  reading  it.  For  the  last  time!  And  I  hastened  on 
my  journey,  which  would  soon  take  me  into  the  Appian 
Way  and  through  the  clinging  mists  of  the  Campagna. 


CHAPTER   XX 

I  TAKE  SANCTUARY 

I  NOW  hastened  on  some  miles,  the  fever  in  my 
veins  which  I  had  brought  from  that  woodland  dell, 
and  every  step  reminding  me  of  yesterday — for  my 
journey  went  over  the  same  ground  as  far  as  Albano. 
But  the  Feast  of  Troubadours,  the  May  that  sparkled 
and  sang,  were  touched  this  afternoon,  I  thought,  with 
a  strain  of  intense  dejection.  Yet  the  sun  flamed  in 
front  on  mountain  and  lake  for  a  changing  hour;  I  had 
the  sea  on  my  left,  a  heaving  plain  of  gold,  with  silvery 
clouds  high  above  it,  and  down  to  the  Campagna  I 
went,  a  lonesome  figure.  What,  indeed,  was  left  to 
me?  For  I  will  speak  my  mind.  Except  Laura,  whose 
remembrance  stayed  with  me  as  part  of  my  most  de- 
lightful year,  nothing  remained  of  England  but  a  distant 
shadow.  My  father  and  I  had  fallen  out ;  my  brother 
— as  I  find  is  so  often  the  case  between  brothers — had 
always  been  a  stranger  to  me.  This  old  classic  land  of 
Italy  was  my  home ;  I  felt  the  blood  of  its  ancient  races 
warm  within  me ;  all  that  I  had  of  life  blossomed  under 
its  ripening  and  miraculous  sunlight.  Thus  in  leaving 
Roccaforte  I  seemed  to  be  plunging  off  the  last  spars 
of  wreck  into  the  waves. 

I  made  a  halt  at  beautiful  La  Riccia,  close  to  its 
great  viaduct  which  spans  the  valley  with  a  triple  tier 
of  arches,  and  in  some  foul  spaccio  di  vino  I  broke  a 

265 


266  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

morsel  of  bread  and  gulped  down  a  flask  of  Castellano. 
This  gave  to  my  fever  a  sort  of  exhilaration.  I  fell 
into  all  manner  of  satirical  and  grotesque  fancies  which 
I  should  be  ashamed  to  write,  for  they  were  the  very 
babblings  of  a  mind  diseased.  I  thought  of  Tiberio 
picking  up  the  tricks  and  marking  the  score.  He 
would  now  be  master  of  the  Sorelli,  of  Costanza ;  but 
what  was  his  game  with  Lucera?  Anyhow  Gaetano 
appeared  to  be  caught,  and  by  his  means  the  young 
Absaloms  of  the  Catholic  party.  But  perhaps  I  could 
defeat  my  enemy  at  this  wing  of  the  combat,  though 
beaten  everywhere  else. 

Getting  a  lift  on  a  wine-cart,  which  was  trundling 
its  slow  way  along  in  the  twilight,  between  Albano  and 
Marino,  I  reached  the  gates  of  Rome.  With  careless 
brilliancy  the  bold  moon  was  rising  over  the  tombs  of 
illustrious  or  forgotten  dead  upon  the  Appian  Way, 
making  these  sepulchral  mounds  gaudy  as  with  bor- 
rowed silver.  We  passed  the  well-known  ruins,  against 
whose  desolation  my  sorrow  of  a  day  seemed  petty,  yet 
would  not  cease  aching.  At  the  Colosseum  I  quitted 
Lucio  and  his  wine-barrels,  traversed  the  side  streets 
that  lead  to  the  Piazza  Venezia,  and  so  onward  to 
Finocchio's  lodging-house.  I  was  always  welcome 
there.  Vanni  put  never  a  question  to  me  since  I  had 
discovered  Tiberio,  but  to-night  he  seemed  in  a  fluster 
of  anxiety. 

"Has  anything  happened?  Any  visitor  called?" 
I  asked  him  when  I  had  given  such  vague  explanations 
as  might  account  for  my  coming  at  an  hour  so  late, 
without  baggage,  and  with  the  pedestrian's  dust  upon 
me. 

"  One  has  asked  to  see  you  not  two  hours  ago,"  he 
replied  in  a  whisper.  "  Carluccio — he  would  give  no 
other  name.  That  was  enough,  he  said.  He  will 
come  again  to-morrow — at  night." 


CHAP.  XX.]  I  TAKE  SANCTUARY  267 

"  The  very  man,"  I  exclaimed  joyfully.  "  But  is  he 
no  acquaintance  of  yours,  Giovanni?  Did  you  enter 
into  conversation  with  him?" 

"  Eh,  Singor  mio,  am  I  a  chiacchierone — a  chatter- 
box? Shut  your  mouth,  and  the  flies  won't  get  in.  The 
blind  man  gets  home  with  a  stick.  Too  many  eyes, 
my  granny  used  to  say,  turned  Messer  Argo  into  a 
peacock.  Giovanni  is  blind  and  dumb,  unless  to  in- 
quire what  your  Excellence  would  have  for  supper. 
Basta!" 

"  You  have  every  reason  to  be  so,  Vanni.  I  praise 
and  envy  you.  Nevertheless,  when  Carluccio  looks  in 
to-morrow,  if  I  am  out,  keep  him  till  I  come  home, 
though  the  clock  should  be  striking  midnight.  And 
did  he  give  you  none  of  the  signs?"  I  concluded. 

Giovanni  put  on  an  appearance  of  utter  vacancy. 
"  Niente,  Signore,"  was  all  he  said. 

In  the  morning,  as  early  as  Roman  custom  would 
permit,  I  was  with  Finocchio  outside  the  door  at  which, 
long  ago,  we  had  rung  in  the  Palazzo  Annibaldi.  My 
thoughts  at  this  juncture,  when  I  could  attempt  no 
more  directly  for  the  protection  of  Roccaforte,  were 
fixed  on  its  great  ally,  the  Cardinal  Ligario.  He  might 
succeed  where  I  had  failed.  I  must  lose  no  time. 
Events  were  marching  fast;  a  few  days — or  hours — 
might  work  irreparable  disaster.  So  I  took  my  Nea- 
politan friend  as  an  advocate  with  the  Cardinal's  ser- 
vant, his  crony,  Masillo.  Well  that  I  did;  otherwise, 
with  the  Oriental  nonchalance  of  his  tribe,  that  slum- 
bering Cerberus  would  have  left  me  to  kick  my  heels 
in  the  antechamber  until  I  was  half  mad,  and  then  go 
away,  my  business  no  more  advanced  than  when  I 
came. 

To  Finocchio  his  countryman  was  open.  "  Eminenza 
will  not  come  back  till  evening,"  he  said.  "  He  is  gone 
with  a  party  of  illustrious  forestieri  to  the  Villa  Borghese ; 


268  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

then  he  will  be  driving  with  them.  Your  Excellence," 
turning  to  me  with  a  low  reverence  and  fingering  the 
notes  I  thrust  upon  him,  "  you  must  put  wings  to  your 
feet,  like  the  marble  boy  with  a  straw  hat  one  sees  in 
the  galleries  " — such  was  his  accurate  description  of 
Hermes  petasatus — "  then  you  will  come  upon  the  Sig- 
ner Cardinal  in  the  casino  of  the  Villa.  He  would  be 
lecturing  to  those  ladies  on  styles  of  art,  pictures,  and 
I  know  not  how  much.  He  admires  the  beautiful,  does 
our  Cardinal  Marcello." 

I  scarcely  heard  the  end  of  this  declamation,  flung 
over  my  shoulder  as  I  ran  down-stairs.  A  legno  took 
me,  through  lines  of  vehicles  and  the  crowd  which  is  a 
feature  of  renovated  Rome,  down  by  the  Babuino  and 
under  the  Porta  del  Popolo  into  the  green  seclusion  of 
the  Borghese  Gardens.  At  this  hour  none  of  the  ordi- 
nary visitors  were  strolling  about  those  pleasant  walks. 
I  drove  to  the  casino,  dismissed  my  conveyance,  and 
with  an  indifferent  gaze  traversed  the  rooms,  in  which 
I  could  not  hear  sounds  of  dialogue  or  the  movements 
of  a  company.  Had  the  Cardinal  left  before  I  came? 
These  vacant-eyed  marble  figures  tantalized  and  op- 
pressed my  mind.  Yet  how  beautiful  some  of  them 
were!  Ah,  in  that  little  chamber  ahead  people  are  stir- 
ring, and  a  deep  voice  echoes.  It  is  Ligario.  Will  he 
receive  me? 

He  was  erect,  with  hand  uplifted  and  thumb  and  fore- 
finger joined — the  teacher's  attitude — in  front  of  the 
group  that  made  a  centerpiece  to  this  cabinet — Apollo 
chasing  Daphne,  who  is  already  half  transmuted  to  the 
laurel  as  the  god  lays  hand  upon  her.  Three  ladies 
and  two  gentlemen,  French  to  the  finger-tips,  were 
gathered  round  the  Cardinal  as  he  talked  in  his 
strong  nasal  accents,  a  smile  on  the  swarthy  red  coun- 
tenance, which  resembled  so  closely  that  of  Julius  II. 
His  French,  though  correct,  was  something  marred  by 


CHAP.  XX.]  I  TAKE  SANCTUARY  269 

the  Italian  breadth  and  music  that  took  away  from  its 
crispness  and  blunted  its  epigrams. 

"  This  work  of  a  boy  of  eighteen,  Bernini,"  I  heard 
him  say,  "  is  a  splendid  improvisation.  Perhaps  it  at- 
tempts what  should  never  be  done,  to  give  sculpture 
that  element  of  the  picturesque — the  anecdote,  so  critics 
term  it  now — which  is  proper  to  painting.  Ah,  well! 
it  is  alive,  nevertheless,  a  real  poem.  See  how  terrified, 
how  preterhuman,  Daphne  looks !  She  is  no  longer  the 
maiden  of  flesh  and  blood ;  she  is  the  nymph  or  hama- 
dryad who  has  caught  into  her  veins  the  wildness  of 
savage  things ;  in  spite  of  his  eager  pursuit,  Apollo  will 
get  for  his  pains  only  a  handful  of  laurel-leaves.  Such, 
my  dear  ladies,"  he  concluded  with  a  smile,  "  is  the 
reward  of  poets.  They  write  sonnets  to  your  ladyships, 
but  their  bride  is  Fame.  We  say  that  better  still  in 
Italian,  '  Fama  e  fame  ' — is  it  not  true  ?  " 

By  this  I  had  edged  my  way  quietly  round  to  him, 
and  on  turning  the  Cardinal  saw  and  recognized  me. 
I  believe,  indeed,  he  was  already  practising  for  a  loftier 
station,  in  which  it  is  thought  of  great  moment  never  to 
forget  faces.  He  held  out  a  gracious  hand.  "  Whence 
and  whither,  Signer  Utopian?  "  he  said  pleasantly,  with 
an  immediate  reference  to  the  conversation  we  had 
shared — how  long  ago !  "  Do  you  still  dream  of  Para- 
dise on  this  side  of  Lethe?" 

His  French  companions  fell  back  while  he  was  speak- 
ing. "  Eminence,"  I  answered,  "  I  beg  a  few  minutes 
on  business  which  is  not  Utopian,  but  most  sad  and 
serious.  I  come  from  Roccaforte." 

He  was  attentive  immediately.  "  From  Don  Gae- 
tano?"  he  inquired. 

"  On  his  behalf,  at  all  events.  But,"  looking  signifi- 
cantly at  the  visitors,  "  I  cannot  speak  here.  Will  your 
Eminence  deign  to  walk  with  me  a  short  way  into  the 
garden?  Five  minutes  will  suffice." 


270  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BooK  III. 

He  reflected.  "  Your  demeanor  tells  me  there  is 
something  in  the  wind.  I  will  go  with  you — yes — to 
the  medieval  ruins,  it  is  a  secluded  spot.  My  dear 
friends,"  raising  his  voice,  "  have  the  kindness  to  meet 
me  in  the  gallery  up-stairs,  before  Raffaelle's  '  Entomb- 
ment.' I  will  be  with  you  in  ten  minutes." 

We  were  soon  threading  the  shady  walks,  fragrant 
with  a  thousand  odors.  Until  we  reached  a  clear  space 
I  kept  my  lips  closed. 

"  Now  we  are  quite  alone,"  said  the  Cardinal  on  ar- 
riving near  the  sham  medieval  castle,  "  speak,  and  have 
no  fear." 

I  spoke,  but  I  had  more  fears  than  I  could  avouch  to 
this  high  political  churchman,  whose  line  of  conduct 
was  necessarily  unknown  to  me,  and  his  motives  a 
secret.  That  he  never  would  ally  himself  with  Tiberio 
Sforza,  or  with  any  that  dipped  their  weapons  in  assas- 
sination, I  could  well  believe.  But  how  far  he  might 
wink  at  excesses,  not  sharing  in  them,  the  effect  of 
which  would  be  revolution  and  the  pulling  down  of  the 
Cross  of  Savoy,  was  perhaps  more  doubtful.  The 
Italian,  Guelf  or  Ghibelline,  has  been  a  waiter  on  Provi- 
dence for  so  many  hundreds  of  years  that  he  cannot 
give  up  the  game  in  the  turning  of  a  hand.  Therefore, 
I  must  alarm  the  Cardinal  by  appealing  to  his  affection 
for  Gaetano.  I  did  so.  I  represented  "the  Count" 
as  a  leader  of  anarchy,  strong  in  the  Camorra — and 
here  Ligario  questioned  me  how  I  knew,  but  I  told 
him  straight  out  that  I  would  not  answer — strong  also 
by  reason  of  his  great  wealth,  and  determined  to  com- 
bine in  one  movement  all  the  malcontents  of  whatever 
color.  A  conspiracy  was  starting  among  the  soldiers ; 
Gaetano  had  been  solicited  to  act  his  part — to  draw 
in  the  Catholic  officers  and  get  ready  for  the  day  of 
barricades  in  Rome  or  Milan.  Moreover,  he  was  falling 
into  the  snare. 


CHAP.  XX.]  I  TAKE  SANCTUARY  271 

"You  are  assured  of  that?"  inquired  the  Cardinal, 
bending  on  me  his  contracted  brows. 

"  Sure  of  it,  your  Eminence.  I  know  the  tempter 
and  the  man  tempted.  I  have  heard  them  discuss  the 
matter.  Given  a  revolt  anywhere,  Gaetano,  if  you  do 
not  instantly  take  him  away,  will  be  implicated." 

My  words  threw  the  Cardinal  into  a  deep  study. 
"  You  advise  me  to  remove  the  young  Prince  out  of 
this  man's  path?  But,  sir,"  turning  with  an  eager 
glance,  as  if  he  would  pierce  into  my  brain,  "  have  you 
not  some  design  in  all  this?  What  is  your  relation  to 
the  Count?  Are  you  friendly  with  Gaetano?" 

"  I  think  Gaetano  as  heroic  a  spirit  as  ever  lived. 
The  Count  is  what  I  say.  For  myself,  your  Eminence 
calls  me  a  Utopian.  Be  it  so.  I  want  no  revolutions 
made  by  murder.  And  I  implore  you  to  rescue  the 
Sorelli  from  this  subtle  fiend." 

His  thoughts  left  me  again ;  they  were  fetching  a  wide 
compass.  "  It  is  true,"  he  said  at  length,  "  the  Church 
abhors  violence;  she  condemns  all  secret  associations. 
What  could  we  not  have  done,  as  Tertullian  remarks  of 
the  first  Christians,  had  our  maxim  not  been  rather  to 
let  our  own  blood  be  spilled  than  to  spill  that  of  our 
enemies?  But  all  these  years — Signer,  observe  it  well 
— not  once  have  we  conspired  against  the  powers  that 
be.  There  is  no  Catholic  Freemasonry,  no  preaching 
of  sedition  in  the  pulpit — nothing  but  patience  with  a 
firm  expression  of  the  rights  which  we  claim.  Even 
you,  an  Englishman,  a  Protestant,  will  own  so  much." 

I  made  a  sign  of  acquiescence.  "  But  Gaetano,  will 
you  insist  on  his  leaving  Rome — nay  Italy?  There  is 
not  the  faintest  hope  for  him,  unless  he  puts  the  Alps 
or  the  sea  between  himself  and  the  Count." 

Ligario  pursued  his  argument.  "  No  violence,  I  re- 
peat— no  conspiracy.  Well,  but  how  if  Providence  put 
its  hand  to  the  work?  Signor,  in  Europe  at  this  elev- 


272  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BooK  III. 

enth  hour  of  the  century  I  see  only  two  powers  stand- 
ing. Know  you  which  they  are?" 

I  waited  for  him  to  answer  himself.  "  They  are  the 
Church  and  the  Army.  Parliaments,  as  Gambetta  told 
the  French  Chambers,  are  a  collection  of  jockeys  and 
horse-doctors" — he  stopped  to  relish  the  description. 
"  As  for  kings,  if  the  soldiers  turned  against  them,  I 
pray  you  where  would  they  be?  But  soldiers  are  no 
longer  hirelings ;  they  are  the  people.  And  there  is  a 
natural  alliance  between  the  soldier  and  the  priest.  If 
your  Count  has  seen  that,  he  sees  far." 

The  big  voice  had  sunk  under  the  weight  of  reflec- 
tions that  carried  in  them  all  the  future.  I,  too,  was 
aware  of  the  portentous  consequences  which  must  fol- 
low upon  the  drilling  and  arming  of  the  nations.  It 
could  not  be  an  everlasting  parade. 

"  Will  you,  then,"  I  said,  "  look  on  while  Gaetano 
cements  that  alliance  with  his  blood?" 

"  God  in  heaven  forbid!"  exclaimed  the  churchman. 
"  I  tell  you  frankly,  my  dear  journalist — you  may  re- 
port me  if  you  please — I  have  not  one  ounce  of  trust 
in  United  Italy.  All  history  cries  out  against  it.  I 
believe  in  federation — small  states,  local  independence, 
and  the  Holy  Father  President  of  our  Union,  which 
would  look  up  to  Rome  as  its  capital.  Should  this 
ever  come  to  pass  by  the  action  of  Army  and  people, 
how  could  we  refuse  to  welcome  it?  But  it  must  come 
without  conspiracies,  by  the  free  growth  of  popular 
opinion.  We  have  nothing  in  common  with  anarchism. 
I  cannot  allow  Gaetano  to  perish." 

His  mind,  during  this  colloquy,  which  had  taken  us 
backward  and  forward  in  the  narrow  space,  had  been 
arriving  at  some  definite  conclusion.  "  Ah,  I  have  it," 
he  said.  "  In  a  few  days  I  start  for  Vienna,  where 
duty  calls  me  and  will  keep  me  many  weeks.  I  want 
the  help  and  counsel  of  a  layman  in  Sorelli's  high  posi- 


CHAP.  XX.]  I  TAKE  SANCTUARY  273 

tion.  He  shall  go  with  me.  For  the  rest,  be  not  anx- 
ious, Signer.  I  know  how  to  convince  him  of  the 
wisdom  that  lies  in  moderation:  that  is  no  new  doc- 
trine of  mine." 

"  Your  Eminence  will  not  mention  my  name  ?  "  I  said, 
preparing  to  take  leave ;  "  it  might  frustrate  your  most 
specious  arguments." 

"  To  what  purpose  should  I  mention  it,  my  dear  sir  ? 
It  is  the  situation  of  the  country,  not  your  eloquence, 
however  persuasive  " — with  an  arch  smile — "  that  warns 
us  against  throwing  away,  in  a  mad  and  criminal  at- 
tempt, the  fruits  of  twenty  years'  patience.  Addio, 
figluolo,"  as  I  kissed  his  ring,  "  you  have  my  thanks 
and  my  blessing." 

So  one  stroke  had  gone  home.     Now  for  the  other. 

At  every  turn,  hitherto,  my  trouble  had  been  that  I 
could  not  aim  a  blow  at  this  monstrous  capobanda  with- 
out exposing  his  victims  to  a  deadly  wound.  Did  I 
bring  him  face  to  face  with  Gaetano,  that  impetuous 
St.  George  would  out  with  his  sword — flamberge  au 
vent — leap  forward  to  the  chance-medley,  and — as  was 
all  too  probable — perish  in  a  combat  where  he  would 
be  attacked  from  behind.  The  scheme  which  now 
shaped  itself  in  my  thoughts  was  hazardous,  but  prom- 
ised to  succeed.  I  must  get  evidence  other  than  my 
own  that  Sforza  had  been  a  partner  in  the  crimes  of 
Santa  Fiora.  Proof  in  hand  I  must  approach  the  high- 
est powers  of  the  Kingdom,  and  compel  them  to  break 
up  the  association  of  malefactors  to  which  I  traced  the 
calamities  of  the  House  of  Sorelli. 

I  had  yet  no  means  of  judging  how  far  Prince  Camillo 
was  entangled  in  Sforza's  nets.  But  my  remembrance 
of  his  timid  and  melancholy  expression  gave  reason  to 
surmise  that  he  endured  Tiberio  rather  than  shared  in 
his  projects.  There  might  be  some  likeness  between 

18 


274  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BooK  III. 

the  son-in-law  of  Scanza  and  myself.  Had  we  not 
both  slipped  inside  these  meshes  unwittingly?  That 
was  my  hope.  Most  surely  the  dreams  of  a  wide- 
spread anarchist  uprising  would  have  little  charm  for 
a  Liberal  statesman,  nourished  on  patriotic  aspirations 
such  as  had  culminated  in  the  "  Italia  Una "  and  the 
"Roma  Capitale"  of  1870.  My  conclusion  was  that 
I  had  now  to  win  over  Carluccio,  making  him  King's 
evidence  against  the  manutengolo,  and  that  I  would 
go  to  Camillo,  and,  if  he  were  slack,  to  the  throne  itself, 
never  resting  until  this  iniquity  was  ended  with  Tiberio's 
downfall. 

On  reaching  Finocchio's  I  saw  that  something  had 
happened.  Giovanni  shivered  in  all  his  limbs  as  if  the 
Roman  fever  held  him.  On  that  sunny  day  his  teeth 
chattered  in  his  head.  His  mild,  brown  eyes  had 
grown  larger;  and  twice,  while  attempting  to  lay  the 
table,  he  let  the  plates  fall  with  a  crash,  beholding  the 
ruins  in  a  mood  of  passive  despair.  Luckily  we  were 
alone.  "  Mio  caro  Vanni,"  I  said,  "  you  had  better  tell 
me  what  is  the  matter.  Dove  t'e«cascato  il  somaro? 
Where  has  your  donkey  fallen  down?" 

"My  donkey,  indeed,  Signor!"  he  cried  in  a  taking 
of  fear  and  exasperation,  "mine,  indeed!  say  rather 
yours,  Eccellenza — that  devil's  brat  and  imp  from  hell, 
Carluccio.  He  is  the  somaro  that  has  tumbled,  and — 
with  reverence — you  will  find  him  between  your  legs. 
Oibo,  che  bestiaccia  d'un  brigante!  Why  did  they 
send  him  to  me?" 

"Then  Carluccio  has  been  here?"  I  said  with  sever- 
ity. "  Let  the  plates  alone,  Vanni ;  tell  me  what 
passed  between  you.  To  begin  with,  did  you  know 
more  about  the  lad  than  his  name  ?  Now,  no  roman- 
cing, my  good  man !  Just  the  plain,  wholesome  truth." 

"Wholesome,  you  call  it,"  he  answered  ironically. 
"  Better  for  you,  Signore,  to  believe  my  romances  than 


CHAP.  XX.]  I   TAKE  SANCTUARY  275 

to  hear  his  beautiful  truth.  Did  I  know  Carluccio  ?  I 
never  saw  him  till  he  came  here,  so  help  me  Sant' 
Andrea  e  tutti  Santi,  but  the  signs  passed" — this  was 
said  in  a  whisper — "  so  I  understood  he  was  a  piciotto 
— what  you  say  in  English,  a  prentice  lad." 

"Indeed?  Apprenticed  to  what  trade,  Giovanni? 
An  honest  one,  I  hope." 

"  It  is  no  time  for  joking,  Eccellenza.  You  know  as 
well  as  I  do  that  the  trade  we  mean  is  the  Camorra. 
When  I  was  a  little  boy,  they  had  only  a  handful  of 
Romans,  Tuscans,  Lombards,  in  the  sect ;  but  now, 
since  it  has  got  into  the  Army,  it  is  not  Neapolitan  any 
more,  but  Italian.  Much  good  may  it  do  them !  Car- 
luccio is  from  Marino  —  which  is  not  the  gate  of  heaven. 
He  has  a  fair  face  and  a  black  heart.  Don't  trust  him." 

"  Well,  but  his  errand  ?    Why  did  he  come  after  me  ?  " 

Giovanni  laid  down  plate  and  napkin,  stood  in  the 
center  of  the  room,  and  burst  out,  "  Signer,  I  am  the 
most  unlucky  of  mortals — a  lizard  in  the  mouth  of  a 
snake — a  pan  of  chestnuts  roasting  on  the  fire — and 
what  do  I  know?  The  errand  was — oh,  yes,  very 
polite,  very  amiable — that  Eccellenza  would  have  the 
extreme  goodness  not  to  leave  Rome  until  he  heard 
from  Messer  Carluccio  again — with  a  plague  on  him. 
That  all?  A  little  more.  That  Eccellenza  would  do 
well  to  keep  in  the  house  until  this  youth  gave  him 
permission  to  leave  it ;  or  at  least  would  not  go  any- 
where alone,  but  always  in  company  of  Giovanni 
Finocchio.  Servo  suo!"  He  made  me  an  ironical 
salute.  "Something  more  yet!  That  the  piciotto 
was  exceedingly  sorry,  but  his  orders  would  not  allow 
him  to  wait  until  Signer  Ardente  returned ;  but  in 
Giovanni  Finocchio  he  left  one  who  would  follow  you 
like  a  shadow.  And  he  kissed  his  hands  to  you — the 
whelp.  Are  you  satisfied  now?"  My  host  fell  into  a 
paroxysm  of  prayer  and  imprecation. 


276  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

"  Give  me  a  few  moments  to  reflect,"  I  answered. 
"You  think  Carluccio  a  traitor?" 

"  What  else  ?  "  said  Vanni ;  "  a  smooth-tongued,  lying 
villain,  that  wants  to  put  upon  me  the  credit  of  assas- 
sinating you,  when  he  has  done  it  himself.  The  trick 
is  an  old  one.  I  am  seen  with  you  everywhere;  then 
you  are  found  dead,  perhaps  in  the  Via  de'  Tre  Ladroni, 
or  in  the  Val  d'  Inferno,  beyond  the  Porta  Angelica,  and 
who  but  I  held  the  knife?  Ah,  give  me  Carluccio's 
throat  here;  I  would  show  you  how  it  is  done!" 

"  How  did  he  know  I  was  coming  here  again  ?  Did 
he  say  ?  " 

"  He  said — lies  or  no  lies — that  he,  as  a  piciotto,  had 
been  told  off  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  Signor  Inglese. 
That  now  he  had  other  business,  and  he  would  put  the 
watching  on  me.  But  that  on  no  account  were  you  to 
leave  Rome  or  have  any  dealings  with  the  Government. 
'  Tell  him,'  said  this  tarantula — may  he  choke  with  his 
own  poison !  — '  to  keep  still  and  do  nothing — to  live 
in  the  picture-galleries  or  in  the  catacombs,  until  he 
hears  from  me  again;  or  he  will  be  pulling  the  devil  by 
the  tail.  Tell  him  that.'  " 

"  You  could  n't  guess  which  devil,  Giovanni  ?  It 
might  make  a  difference  if  I  knew." 

Finocchio  gave  me  a  glance  of  saturnine  humor. 
"  Whose  tail  have  you  been  pulling  these  six  months 
gone  ?  "  he  inquired.  "  You  are  looking  ill,  wasted,  the 
ghost  of  yourself,  Signor — and  all  because  you  would 
not  harken  to  me  the  first  night  you  arrived  in  Rome. 
I  think  you  should  be  acquainted  with  that  tail,  per 
Bacco!  Take  care  of  the  horns  now." 

While  he  ran  on,  my  mind  was  clearing.  Carluccio 
had  been  probably  nearer  than  I  imagined  during  the 
last  days  at  Roccaforte.  His  visit  to  Finocchio  was  a 
signal,  not  a  menace ;  whatever  happened,  I  might 
reckon  upon  him  in  the  enemy's  camp.  Should  I  take 


CHAP.  XX.]  I  TAKE  SANCTUARY  277 

his  warning?  Without  him  I  had  neither  evidence 
against  Tiberio  nor  means  of  getting  news  from  the 
Monti  Lepini.  But  I  could  invoke  the  aid  of  Camillo 
and  the  Government.  Yes — and  immediately  there 
came  hurrying  across  my  imagination  a  number  of  hor- 
rible stories — true  ones  I  knew  them  to  be — the  blood 
dripping  from  actors  and  victims — in  which,  as  soon  as 
the  military  appeared,  the  brigands  drew  their  knives 
and  made  short  work  of  the  hostages.  My  situation 
was  beset  with  alarms  and  ambuscades.  But  I  came  to 
the  decision  which  my  young  bandit  recommended. 

"  Be  it  so,  Giovanni,"  said  I,  resignedly.  "  One 
word,  and  let  us  have  done  with  it.  You  shall  be  my 
jailer;  I  will  neither  write  to  the  authorities  nor  call 
upon  any  of  them.  Give  Carluccio  that  assurance  from 
me.  To-morrow  morning  let  us  begin  the  round  of 
the  picture-galleries — in  which  the  atmosphere  is  not  so 
close,  I  take  it,  as  in  the  catacombs.  And  now  to  the 
maccaroni!  Is  it  as  tasty  as  usual  ?" 

"  Tastier  than  you  will  get  from  Tiberio,"  he  grum- 
bled ;  "  but  pazienza,  I  say  nothing.  Bocca,  non  parola. 
Love  God  and  leave  Satan  to  cook  his  own  dinner. 
You  are  too  bold,  Signor;  you  may  reckon  on  what 
you  Englishmen  call  a  dessert,  and  we  Italians  merenda 
— just  what  you  deserve  for  taking  such  pains  to  feel 
the  coltello  in  your  ribs.  And  so,  God  be  with  us. 
Another  plate,  Signor?  In  the  flash  of  a  dagger!" 


CHAPTER   XXI 

SAN   PIETRO   AT   MIDNIGHT 

DURING  the  days  that  followed,  while  no  Carluccio 
came,  and  some[great  unknown  event  was  hanging 
over  our  heads,  I  used  often  to  fancy  myself  the  one 
inmate  that  could  not  slumber  in  the  palace  of  la  Belle 
au  Bois  dormant.  I  went  wandering  about  its  galleries 
and  corridors,  sat  by  its  fountains  and  listened  to  the 
plashing  of  their  waters,  searched  up  and  down  for 
curiosities  in  every  nook ;  and  still  the  briar-rose  trailed 
as  in  a  neglected  garden  its  branches  through  the 
windows  and  doorways,  the  silence  would  not  quicken 
into  life,  and  all  things,  as  though  eyeless  statues, 
suffered  me  to  pass  nor  would  make  any  sign.  Con- 
demned to  mute  expectation,  I  should  have  fretted  my 
nerves  to  fiddle-strings,  at  which  a  music  pizzicato  and 
vehement  was  always  plucking,  had  not  the  strange, 
high  melancholy  of  the  marble-world  of  Rome  subdued 
me  to  a  peacefulness  I  might  have  sought  elsewhere  in 
vain. 

I  never  shall  recall  the  time  without  wonder,  nay 
without  delight,  heavy  as  I  felt  in  my  sorrow  at  the 
loss  of  Costanza  and  Gaetano.  What  would  be  their 
doom?  It  was  beyond  conjecture.  Yet  if  unhappy, 
as  seemed  the  way  with  creatures  so  fair  and  delicate, 
mine  would  be  a  lifelong  grieving  over  them,  so  mighty 
a  hold  had  they  seized  upon  my  heart  which  lived, 

278 


CHAP.  XXI.]        SAN  PIETRO  AT  MIDNIGHT  279 

absolutely,  in  their  remembrance.  I  was  made  for 
their  love.  And  a  cloud  of  perils  encompassed  them ; 
yet  I  was  sauntering  listlessly  among  old  Greek  gods 
and  the  painted  fantasies  of  all  times,  the  idlest  man  in 
Rome.  It  was  an  extraordinary  situation,  the  like  of 
which  I  would  not  inflict  upon  my  worst  enemy — no, 
not  upon  Tiberio — to  be  waiting  thus,  a  passive  spec- 
tator, while  the  arena  was  getting  its  fresh  sand,  the 
beasts  were  unchaining,  and  the  last  act  moved  forward 
from  the  spaces  beyond.  Enough ;  "  ce  jour  aussi 
passera,"  said  the  luckless  Damiens  on  his  way  to  ex- 
ecution— one  of  the  deepest  words  ever  uttered  by 
human  lips. 

Finocchio,  with  a  wild  eye  and  a  quaking  heart,  went 
wherever  I  took  him.  He  left  the  house  to  be  cared  for 
by  another  of  his  paesani  from  Avellino ;  but  every 
morning,  before  we  set  out  on  our  travels,  he  gave 
directions  how  to  find  us  without  loss  of  time.  In  the 
galleries  Giovanni  would  remain  at  a  distance,  absorbed 
in  his  own  thoughts,  which  mostly  ran  on  the  chances 
of  the  next  lottery ;  he  was  always  murmuring  figures 
and  consulting  omens.  But  he  never  let  me  out  of  his 
sight.  I  began  to  realize  the  terror  which,  from  time 
immemorial,  has  weighed  on  the  Italian  spirit,  above  all 
in  the  South,  where  spies  or  police  have  gone  prowling 
on  the  track  of  the  citizen  day  and  night.  I  was  never 
alone,  never  at  liberty ;  followed  in  all  my  gyrations  by 
invisible  eyes.  There  seemed  to  be  some  one  lurking 
behind  me  who  was  sure  to  disappear  when  I  turned 
round,  or  to  assume  the  shape  of  my  poor,  harmless 
Giovanni  the  moment  I  looked  for  him.  Such  a  ten- 
sion on  the  nerves  might  have  broken  down  a  stronger 
man.  But  at  this  point  the  Greek  gods  and  heroes 
came  to  my  relief. 

Ancient  sculpture  has  always  affected  me  like  music, 
but  not  as  the  highly  colored,  deeply  shadowed  modern 


zSo  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

harmonies  which,  in  their  melting  of  many  tones  to- 
gether, leave  one  vibrant,  yet  exhausted,  as  after  some 
passionate  experience.  No,  rather  like  the  fine,  clear 
settings  of  Palestrina,  I  should  say,  which  fall  upon  one 
out  of  a  cloudless  heaven.  When  I  spent  day  after 
day,  contemplating  in  the  still  palaces  this  divine  com- 
pany from  Olympus,  or  Thebes,  or  Thessaly,  the  in- 
tense and  shining  quietness  could  not  fail  to  equalize 
the  pulses  of  my  blood.  It  was  the  expression  of  a 
beauty  in  which  sense  had  little  share.  I  call  to  mind 
certain  mornings  at  the  Vatican,  when  I  seemed  to  have 
those  imperial  courts  and  stanze  to  myself.  The  uni- 
verse, I  could  have  dreamed,  was  white  sunshine — no 
refraction  of  its  rays  anywhere ;  but  standing  out  fair 
and  pure  the  deathless  forms,  each  so  individual,  so 
consummately  distinct,  that  they  seemed  victorious  over 
mortal  griefs  by  the  very  perfection  of  the  attitude  in 
which  they  fought  and  triumphed.  There  was  a  strange 
innocence,  too,  upon  the  youthful  faces;  by  a  miracle 
of  art  the  flesh  itself  had  all  the  tender  purity  of  blos- 
soms in  their  prime ;  gaze  long  enough  and  you  had 
gone  back  to  the  world's  childhood,  when  the  spirit 
wrote  its  naive  desires  upon  a  tablet  of  Parian  marble, 
unstained  as  the  snow  which  breath  of  man  has  never 
sullied.  These  figures  had  a  kind  of  consecration,  a 
detachment  from  our  sorrows,  that  lifted  me,  like  the 
tragedians'  verses  to  which  they  so  frequently  took  my 
thoughts,  into  an  ever-enduring  stillness  beyond  time 
and  chance.  So  it  was  that  I  did  not  devour  my  own 
heart  as  the  weeks  lengthened — ah,  into  what  perspec- 
tives of  uncertainty !  — and  the  stage  was  empty  yet. 

A  long  three  weeks !  I  had  ascertained,  by  means  of 
Giovanni,  that  Cardinal  Ligario  was  gone  from  Rome ; 
I  could  not  find  out  whether  he  had  taken  Gaetano 
Sorelli.  Desperate  expedients  began  to  fling  their 
shadows  over  my  path — one  in  particular,  of  which  I 


CHAP.  XXL]        SAN   PIETRO  AT  MIDNIGHT  281 

cannot  tell,  even  at  this  supreme  moment,  whether  any- 
thing will  ensue.  At  last  a  message  was  brought  me 
— two  days  ago,  an  eternity  since !  I  was  wasting  an 
hour  in  the  Museum  of  the  Capitol,  Giovanni  keeping 
watch  with  sleepy  eyes,  a  figure  at  once  comic  and 
touching,  doomed  to  the  task  of  Argus,  which  with  him 
was  no  labor  of  love.  My  excursion  through  the  rooms 
had  terminated,  in  obedience  to  the  instinct  that  was 
always  driving  me  back  to  Roccaforte,  at  that  fine 
relief  of  Perseus  setting  free  Andromeda,  which  may  be 
seen  in  one  of  the  vestibules.  There  was  I,  mocking 
myself  with  bitter  comparisons — when  and  by  what 
spells  should  I  win  my  magic  horse,  my  sword  of 
light,  or  the  good  luck  of  this  radiant  youth  against 
the  monster  from  the  sea  ?  I  chafed  at  my  own  help- 
lessness. But  next  I  saw  Finocchio's  half-closed  lids 
unfolding ;  he  started  up,  took  something  from  a  hand 
outside  my  vision,  and  came  to  me  almost  with  a  spring. 
I  tore  the  envelope  which  he  thrust  upon  me,  and  read. 
It  contained  only  these  words,  made  up  of  printed 
letters  cut  from  an  Italian  newspaper  and  pasted  into  a 
sentence,  "  Be  on  the  steps  of  St.  Peter's  without  fail,  at 
eleven  to-night."  Not  a  syllable  more.  But  I  did  not 
need  to  ponder.  I  would  keep  that  appointment.  .  .  . 

I  was  there  to  the  minute.  Passing  over  the  great 
square,  I  scanned  with  eagerness  every  night-stroller 
like  myself,  of  whom  there  were  not  many,  and  these 
discernible  as  black  dominoes  under  a  moonless  heaven. 
The  colonnades  stretching  far  on  both  sides  intensified 
the  gloom,  which  was  strangely  checkered  at  intervals 
by  lines  of  silver  and  softly  pulsing  crimson  streamers, 
shot  from  an  Aurora  Borealis  in  the  sky  overhead. 
This  apparition  came  and  went  intermittently,  a  ghostly 
presence,  beautiful  and  weird,  the  beams  of  which  some- 
times mingled  with  the  white  descent  of  the  fountains, 


282  ARDEN   MASS1TER  [BooK  III. 

and  would  again  strike  upon  the  awful  vastness  of  the 
dome,  there  to  be  quenched  like  sparks  in  water.  The 
effect  of  all  this,  in  my  trouble,  was  a  tingling,  prophetic 
mood,  as  if  I  had  taken  wine  before  some  bold  adven- 
ture. I  ran  hastily  up  the  broad  steps  and  looked  along 
them.  No  one  there.  The  mighty  doors  were  shut ;  the 
church  was  wrapped  in  slumber.  I  paced  to  and  fro, 
thinking  a  thousand  heavy  thoughts,  conscious,  by  sec- 
ond sight,  of  the  view  that  St.  Peter's  would  present 
now,  were  I  on  the  other  side  of  those  massive  portals — 
the  immense  chiaroscuro  of  walls  and  roof,  with  their 
million  colors ;  the  statues  posing  in  their  niches  theat- 
rically ;  the  lights  burning  low  before  shrines  and  altars ; 
and  away  in  a  dim  distance,  the  swarm  of  golden  flow- 
ers, a  crown  and  a  garland  of  yellow  blooms,  forever 
kindling  about  the  Apostle's  resting-place.  Distinctly 
I  could  see,  on  the  marble  floor  of  the  Confession,  that 
suppliant  attitude  of  Pius  VI,  where  he  kneels  in  prayer, 
symbolizing  the  ancient  Christendom,  its  pride  at  once 
and  its  humility.  This  presence,  unchanging,  stayed 
with  me  through  the  next  hour.  The  building  had 
taken  to  itself  all  the  glory  of  the  Book  of  Revelations, 
and  was  become  of  fine  gold,  as  it  were  glass,  trans- 
parent and  impenetrable.  I  was  aware  of  its  surpassing 
magnificence ;  I  could  not  enter  and  worship ;  only  the 
beauty  itself  gave  me  a  kind  of  strength  even  to  re- 
member it.  And  thus  I  waited. 

But  not  long,  perhaps.  The  bells  of  St.  Peter's  had 
chimed  out  once  and  again ;  I  continued  my  uneasy 
walking  over  the  wide  pavement ;  and  quietly  there 
glided  forth  from  the  colonnade  a  tall,  cloaked  phantom, 
who  approached  me  in  silence.  I  did  not  dare  to  speak. 
Lifting  his  hat  and  replacing  it  instantly,  Carluccio 
addressed  me  through  the  gloom.  It  was  he,  as  I  had 
anticipated ;  but  nervous  and  full  of  fears,  trembling  so 
desperately,  that,  when  I  took  his  cold  hand,  he  clung  to 


CHAP.  XXL]        SAN  PIETRO  AT  MIDNIGHT  283 

me  with  the  passion  of  an  infant.  I  was  for  drawing 
him  in  among  the  giant  pillars  from  the  blackness  of 
which  he  had  emerged,  but  he  would  not  let  me. 

"  No,  Signor,"  he  said  in  a  whisper,  "  on  the  steps, 
then  we  cannot  be  overheard.  It  is  safest  here,"and  he 
led  me  to  the  central  gates  of  the  Basilica.  I  held  his 
hand  fast ;  this  untutored  soul  would  surely  be  open 
to  my  influence  if  I  willed  it  strongly ;  on  him  I  now 
hung  as  my  last  hope. 

"  What  news?  "  I  asked  in  a  whisper  like  his  own. 

"  Bad  news,"  he  replied  briefly,  "  but,  oh  Maestro,  I 
am  putting  my  life  in  your  hand.  You  will  not  betray 
me?" 

"  Carlo  mio,"  said  I,  leaning  forward  that  he  might 
have  some  glimpse  of  my  features  beneath  the  Aurora 
which  was  glimmering  above,  "shall  I  swear  it?  Tell 
me  how  to  make  you  sure,  and  I  will." 

Even  in  his  terror  he  had  smiled.  "  No  swearing ;  it 
is  the  word  of  an  Inglese ;  we  know  it  binds  him  better 
than  an  oath  binds  us.  Master,  I  have  come  as  soon  as 
I  could.  Forgive  me  if  it  was  not  sooner.  Ah,  the 
bad  news  I  bring  you!" 

"From  Roccaforte?"  I  said,  overcoming  a  sickness 
that  made  me  reel  and  stagger.  "  Tell  me  all,  I  can 
bear  it.  Where  is  Don  Gaetano  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  He  went  away  nearly  three  weeks 
ago." 

"With  Cardinal  Ligario  then,"  said  I;  "but  if  your 
evil  tidings  are  not  about  him,  are  they — do  they  con- 
cern Donna  Costanza?  Good  God,  tell  me  whether 
she  is  safe!" 

Carluccio's  hold  on  my  wrist  grew  tighter.  "  Signor 
caro,  you  love  that  lady,  do  you  not  ?  I  was  often  close 
to  you  at  the  Rocca,  and  I  saw  many  things.  Livorno 
told  me  off  to  spy  upon  you ;  he  did  not  think  I  was 
your  dog,  your  creature,  always  devoted ;  he  set  me  as 


284  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

a  shadow  behind  you.  But  always  there,  listening,  in- 
quiring, eyes  and  ears  alert,  I  began  to  know  that  you 
adored  Donna  Costanza.  So — was  it  not?" 

"  And  if  it  were  so,  piciotto  mio,  how  then?  Is  your 
news  dreadful  ?  Do  not  spare  me.  Above  all,  make 
haste."  The  suspense,  I  thought,  was  killing  me. 

"  Let  us  walk  up  and  down,"  said  the  young  man, "  else 
an  eavesdropper  may  come  creeping  upon  us.  You 
shall  hear  it  all.  Stop  me,  if  you  do  not  understand." 

Arm  in  arm  we  began  our  slow  promenade  from  one 
end  of  the  pavement  to  the  other.  "  I  am  not  a  sharp 
lad,"  Carluccio  muttered,  "  but  still  my  brains  are  not 
made  of  bran.  The  master — let  us  call  him  so,  for 
names  echo  loud — put  me  as  sentinel  at  the  Rocca  on 
his  own  account;  but  I  made  a  vow  that  I  would  be 
there  on  yours.  Now  there  is  a  page  of  his  we  call 
Ascanio;  you  have  seen  him?" 

I  made  a  gesture  of  assent.  "  Quick,  on  with  the 
story." 

"  He  has  the  wit  and  the  malice  of  ten  thousand 
devils.  We  were  friends,  all  the  same.  I  got  from  him 
that  the  master  intended  to  drive  you  out  of  the  castle 
and  to  take  your  place  in  Don  Gaetano's  heart.  How  ? 
By  lying  and  false  witness,  to  be  sure.  But  Ascanio, 
who  did  not  come  about  the  paese  often,  saw  less  than 
I.  For  I  knew,  and  he  did  not,  that  the  master  was — 
be  patient,  Signor,  I  entreat — was  mad,  I  say,  about 
this  same  lady — fieramente  innamorato.  For  God's 
sake,  cry  not  aloud ;  you  will  be  heard  at  the  obelisk ! " 

I  had  uttered  a  wild  exclamation.  "  He,  mad  about 
Costanza!  The  crawling  reptile!" 

"Yes,  a  reptile,  but  with  poison  in  his  fangs.  Oh, 
I  tell  you,  insane  with  love  and  jealousy;  la  rabbia! 
furious  as  a  bull!  What  could  you  do  against  him? 
Did  not  old  Candia  tell  you  to  drop  the  game  ?  Were 
those  letters  of  ,Santa  Fiora  not  enough  ?  Nor  those 


CHAP.  XXI.]        SAN  PIETRO  AT  MIDNIGHT  285 

burnings  and  slaughterings  at  the  casino?  But  you 
would  never  take  a  warning.  Then  the  Neapolitan, 
Lucera — " 

"What  of  him?  Surely  he  had  no  hand  in  the  plot! 
Do  you  mean  to  say  that  when  he  fired  at  me  out  hunt- 
ing, he  was  in  it?" 

Carluccio  interrupted  me:  "Ah,  and  so  he  fired  at 
you  ?  I  did  not  hear  of  that.  No  matter,  he  was  your 
enemy,  as  others,  because  of  the  malocchio,  as  they 
chattered — " 

The  youth  ended  with  some  embarrassment;  but  I 
laughed,  and  he  began  once  more. 

"  I  knew  they  would  drive  you  out ;  I  was  certain 
you  would  go  to  Finocchio's.  He  is  one  of  our  bond- 
slaves— caught,  like  me,  in  a  peccadillo,  a  bit  of  poach- 
ing, when  an  infant — never  let  escape  afterward. 
There  are  many  of  us,  believe  me.  But,  you  say,  to 
the  tale.  A  month  ago  two  things  happened.  Donna 
Costanza  sent  away  Marchese  Sismondo  with  his  cox- 
comb awry.  Ascanio  spoke  to  you ;  and,  presto,  you 
were  gone  that  very  day.  Did  you  think  it  was  not 
known  ?  But  we  were  watching  from  all  windows ;  so, 
as  you  came  not  at  the  dinner-hour,  and  all  was  trouble 
and  confusion,  the  master  sent  me  on  a  swift  horse  into 
Rome,  and  I  arrived  at  Finocchio's  before  you." 

"  But  why  did  you  not  wait,  the  next  day,  until  I 
came  in?  I  left  the  message  expressly." 

"  It  is  true.  I  was  longing  to  meet  you,  Signer. 
Only  I  had  his  orders — my  hands  full — he  was  sending 
me  elsewhere.  Instead  of  mine,  he  gave  you  into  Gio- 
vanni's charge.  No,  not  because  he  suspected  me.  I 
think  it  was  this  way.  The  lads  are  often  a  bit  rough ; 
young  colts  mostly  they  are — you  can't  trust  them  with 
— with  the  fair  sex,  le  buone  donne — you  know.  He 
fancied  I  was  the  sort  to  be  in  attendance  on  Donna 
Costanza." 


286  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

A  flash  seemed  to  strike  at  me  out  of  the  dark. 
"  But,  man,  where  is  she  ?  Don't  torture  me  with  your 
talk.  Is  Donna  Costanza  at  the  castle?" 

"  She  is  not,  nor  has  been  these  ten  days,"  said  Car- 
luccio,  gloomily.  "  What  is  more,  when  I  left  my  service 
of  the  Principessa,  she  was  in  Livorno's  hands,  a  help- 
less prisoner.  Where  she  is  now,  as  I  am  a  living  man, 
I  cannot  tell.  Signor,  have  courage!  Will  you  faint 
here,  on  the  steps  of  the  church?" 

I  set  my  teeth;  would  I  faint? — No,  by  God  above, 
I  had  something  else  to  do.  "  Then  the  villain  has  car- 
ried her  off?  "  I  said,  with  a  fierce  grip  of  my  compan- 
ion that  extorted  a  cry  from  him. 

"Worse  than  that,"  he  answered,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  How  ? — worse  ?  You  don't  mean  that  he  would — " 
My  tongue  refused  to  utter  it. 

"  I  mean  that  all  the  people  about  Roccaforte  say  you 
have  carried  her  off;  and  some  say  she  went  willingly. 
And  her  good  name ! "  he  whistled  it  down  the  wind. 
"  They  blame  the  old  Prince  now  for  letting  her  run 
wild  ;  troppo  santa  non  viene  mai  a  fine  buono !  You 
may  be  sure  the  wise  men  are  shaking  their  heads  and 
saying,  '  Buon  cavallo  e  mal  cavallo  vuole  sprone ;  e 
buona  femmina  e  mala  femmina  vuol  bastone.'  But  it 
was  all  old  Candia's  doing.  A  witch,  a  brigand,  and  a 
blackmailer — did  one  ever  see  a  trio  more  diabolical? 
I  not,  at  least." 

"  Let  me  hear  everything,"  I  urged,  when  I  was  a 
little  recovered  from  this  horror.  "  A  prisoner — in 
Tiberio's  power!  But  he  could  not  seize  her  in  the 
open  day.  How  did  he  contrive  it?" 

"With  the  cunning  of  seven  devils.  First,  he  made 
friends  with  Lucera — who  is  a  great  piece  of  a  fool,  sav- 
ing your  presence." 

"  Yes,  I  give  up  the  Marchese.  A  fool.  What 
then?" 


CHAP.  XXI.]        SAN  PIETRO  AT  MIDNIGHT  287 

"  That  fool,  flying  from  the  castle  in  a  mighty  pas- 
sion, is  persuaded  that  the  lady  will  elope  with  Messer 
Ardente — for  she  is  in  love  with  him,  and  how  else 
should  they  marry  ? — she  a  Princess  and  a  Catholic,  he 
a  heretic  and  what  know  I  ?  Now,  suppose  the  Mar- 
chese  himself  took  her  away  and  married  her?  Can  it 
be  done?  Yes,  with  the  help  of  Santa  Fiora,  it  can." 

"Who  was  marauding  in  the  woods,"  I  broke  in, 
"when  Lucera  rode  away;  for  I  saw  him." 

"  You  did,  and  I  saw  you.  It  was  a  game  of  hide- 
and-seek;  only  you  did  not  hide  much.  Exactly. 
There  was  Santa  Fiora ;  a  few  hours  afterward  he  was 
making  out  a  pretty  little  plan  of  bird-catching  at  Vel- 
letri  with  Signer  Sismondo — of  whom  I  say  once  more, 
an  idiot,  a  natural,  to  put  his  trust  in  banditti.  How- 
ever, not  the  first  time !  Did  they  not  do  it  often — 
those  great  nobles — so  I  hear  say — when  they  had  the 
world  to  themselves?  Bene,  it  is  agreed.  Santa  Fiora 
steals  the  lady,  but  so  as  to  let  suspicion  fall  on  you ; 
therefore,  not  in  a  minute — not  until  it  would  appear 
that  Lucera  was  clean  gone  out  of  the  country,  down 
to  Foggia,  having  no  more  hope  of  the  marriage.  When 
you  are  fled,  and  the  neighborhood  is  quiet,  the  bird 
may  be  enticed  out  of  her  nest.  That  would  be  Can- 
dia's  business,  acting  as  a  decoy." 

"  In  all  this  Livorno  does  not  appear?  " 

"  He  is  nowhere  to  be  seen,  but  acting  at  every  stage. 
You  shall  hear." 

We  were  now  resting  against  the  closed  iron  gates. 
My  mind  had  leaped  over  the  intermediate  story  to 
Costanza's  peril  at  the  hour  when  we  talked ;  but  unless 
I  knew,  I  could  not  advance  a  step.  Carluccio  must 
tell  what  he  had  seen  in  his  own  way. 

"  Signor,  impatient  as  you  are,"  he  continued,  "I 
spare  to  tell  how  this  trap  was  laid.  Till  Gaetano  went 
nothing  could  be  attempted.  He  was  a  lion  in  the 


288  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BooK  III. 

path.    No  wonder ;  he  had  killed  two  of  ours  at  Monte 
Majella!" 

My  frightful  mistake  stared  me  in  the  face ;  I  had 
removed  Costanza's  chief  protector.  Yet  again,  had  I 
not  done  so,  the  conspirators  would  have  caught  him  in 
their  toils.  Was  there  any  escape  for  him  between  the 
devil  and  the  deep  sea?  I  could  think  of  none.  But 
my  young  bandit  took  up  his  parable  now  with  undis- 
guised relish. 

"  It  is  not  easy,  Signer,  to  arrange  un  sequestro,"  he 
resumed  cheerfully.  "  You  must  have  the  devil's  own 
wit,  and  some  luck — but  luck  is  everything  in  this 
world.  And  when  it  is  a  woman!  But  we  knew  the 
mountains ;  we  had  friends  in  every  paese ;  we  could 
choose  the  hiding-places  we  thought  secure ;  and  there 
was  Candia,  who  hated  you  always,  and  would  kill  you, 
and  Costanza  for  so  much  as  looking  at  you — since 
Livorno  pointed  you  out  to  her  as  Renzaccio's  assassin. 
He  did  so  the  day  after  you  disappeared." 

I  drew  a  long  breath.  "  Ho  capito,  I  understand. 
Suppose  your  preparations  ready,  what  followed?" 

"  The  days  are  long  now ;  only  a  few  hours  of  the 
night  would  serve.  We  could  not  take  the  lady  unless 
she  was  some  distance  from  the  castle,  alone,  and  un- 
suspecting. She  passed  many  hours  in  chapel ;  they 
saw  her  seldom  outside  the  courtyard.  She  had  given 
up  her  visits  of  charity.  All  the  same,  it  was  managed. 
But,  of  course,  the  master  had  left  Roccaforte,  and  all 
there  enchanted  with  him ;  you  know  what  a  man  he  is. 
He  went  off.  But — just  ten  days  ago — Candia's  hus- 
band, Pasquale — he  is  a  match  for  the  wife — was  dying ; 
oh,  but  dying  as  you  never  saw  any  one  die — in  his  holy 
agony.  It  was  late,  nearly  as  dark  as  this ;  the  afflicted 
Strega  sent  up  word  to  the  castle — would  Donna  Cos- 
tanza come  down  to  him  ?  She  had  often  come  down 
before,  so  she  threw  a  cloak  over  her  head — the  poor 


CHAP.  XXI.]        SAN  PIETRO  AT  MIDNIGHT  289 

innocent! — came  down,  with  Ser  Angelo  stumbling 
sleepily  after  her,  and  was  going  into  Candia's  bottega — 
you  remember  it  in  the  Vicolo  dell'  Oca — when  a  small 
troop  of  bersaglieri  appeared  from  heaven  knows  where. 
You  can  imagine,  Signer,  what  sort  of  bersaglieri !  In 
a  minute  it  is  done.  A  sack  is  thrown  over  her  head ; 
she  is  lifted  on  horseback ;  Ser  Angelo  takes  a  hurt  he 
will  carry  to  his  last  confession ;  and  away  goes  the 
squadron,  clattering  down  the  stony  roads  and  off  into 
the  mountains.  Follow  them,  carbineers,  quick!  Aye, 
do,  and  catch  the  wind  of  their  driving  in  your  faces. 
As  soon  as  they  were  fairly  out  of  the  neighborhood 
they  doubled  back ;  took  ways  known  but  to  the  peas- 
ants ;  and  dispersed,  all  except  three  or  four.  I  was 
one  of  the  chosen.  I  nearly  forgot  to  tell  you  that 
they  seized  Nonna  Candia,  too,  as  maid  of  honor  to  the 
Princess.  It  all  went  like  a  play,  I  give  you  my  sacred 
word." 

Until  he  had  finished,  no  syllable  came  from  my  Hps. 
Then  I  took  Carluccio  by  the  throat.  "  You  young 
ruffian!"  I  cried,  half  throttling  him,  "you  dare  to  tell 
me  you  had  a  part  in  it?  You  shall  never  leave  this 
spot  alive." 

But  wiser  thoughts  prevailed  with  me  the  next  in- 
stant. I  could  not  afford  the  luxury  of  murdering  a 
mere  instrument.  His  life  was  precious  to  Costanza,  and 
I  loosened  my  grasp,  while  the  fellow,  shaking  himself 
like  a  dog,  crawled  at  my  feet.  He  was  not  indignant, 
hardly  surprised. 

"  You  have  reason,  Signor,"  he  said  humbly,  gasping 
out  the  words.  "  It  was  a  villainy.  But  what  could  I 
do  ?  Run  away  and  give  information  ?  Never  any  good 
to  give  information !  Come  here  to  you  ?  Before  the 
thing  happened,  what  difference  would  that  make,  since 
you  could  not  help  ?  Now  I  come  as  soon  as  I  get  the 
chance.  Forgive  me!" 

19 


290  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  III. 

I  had  no  alternative ;  I  must  forgive  the  lad.  "  Up, 
and  don't  lie  there,"  I  said,  choking  with  the  emotion 
that  came  over  me.  "  On  one  condition  I  pardon  you — 
you  will  take  your  oath  to  help  me  in  hunting  down 
these  two  miscreants?  Swear,  I  say." 

He  put  his  finger  to  his  lips  solemnly.  "  I  swear  by 
our  Madonna — the  Madonna  del  Carmine — to  do  your 
bidding,  Signor.  What  can  I  do  more?" 

"Even  should  you  risk  your  life?  Carluccio,  you 
pledge  yourself  to  me  and  to  the  Madonna,  come  what 
may?" 

"  I  pledge  myself,"  he  answered,  taking  the  hand 
which  not  many  moments  earlier  had  been  strangling 
the  life  out  of  him,  and  kissing  it. 

How  was  it  possible  not  to  forgive  such  a  child  of 
nature? 

"  But  the  Princess — tell  me  what  she  did.  How  did 
she  take  this  vile  handling?  " 

"  Like  an  angel,  Signor  mio !  Even  at  the  first  hor- 
rible stroke  she  neither  screamed  nor  swooned.  You 
must  know  that  the  sack  was  taken  off  as  soon  as  her 
captors  had  ridden  out  of  the  village.  I  was  not  one  of 
them,  don't  think  it.  The  party  wore  masks ;  Santa 
Fiora  kept  always  by  her  side ;  we  others  joined  them 
at  a  place  fixed  on  previously.  In  all  the  riding  and 
racing  Donna  Costanza  would  never  be  able  to  tell  by 
what  roads  she  was  carried  off.  But  except  the  terror, 
no  harm  was  done.  When  I  saw  her  at  the  journey's 
end,  in  the  deserted  farm-house,  at  Le  Pergole,  she  was 
calm  as  a  statue,  praying — praying  every  moment.  Ah, 
had  you  seen  her  then,  you  would  have  kissed  her 
footsteps!" 

I  did  not  imagine  this  to  be  false,  or  said  by  way  of 
soothing  me.  In  a  great  horror  of  darkness  Costanza 
would  have  been  rapt,  by  the  very  shock  and  astonish- 
ment, out  of  this  lower  sphere.  I  knew  the  miracles  that 


CHAP.  XXL]        SAN  PIETRO  AT  MIDNIGHT  291 

her  spirit  could  achieve ;  and  when — if  not  amid  acci- 
dents so  frightful  ? 

"Then  did  Lucera  meet  you  at  Le  Pergole?  " 

"  Oh,  Lucera!"  exclaimed  the  youth,  breaking  into  a 
laugh  that  he  checked  immediately.  "  He  was  finely 
taken  in — diavolo  gabbato!  the  devil  in  his  own  cage — 
we  say — catch  and  be  caught.  Well,  it  is  true.  The 
master  himself  brought  Lucera  up  through  valleys  and 
mountains  to  Le  Pergole;  it  is  a  big,  old,  rambling 
house,  una  masseria,  with  rooms  above  and  below, 
cellars,  and  winepresses — would  shelter  an  army ;  and, 
the  fattore  left  it  all  to  us,  and  went  for  a  holiday. 
Tutto  proprio,  Signore !  Donna  Costanza  would  not  be 
served  better  at  home.  Candia,  the  witch,  made  abella 
commedia  of  the  capture — crying  millstones  out  of  her 
wicked  old  eyes,  playing  the  drum  with  her  crooked 
fingers,  and  oh,  what  a  bad  world  it  was.  I  told  her  it 
would  be  worse  if  she  did  not  stop  caterwauling  and 
sleep  in  santa  pace.  All  she  wanted  was  to  frighten  her 
young  lady — like  the  Jannara,  the  limb  of  old  Satan 
that  she  is.  Ah,  Santiddio,  but  I  gave  her  a  fine 
fright!" 

"Well,  but  Lucera?  You  say  Livorno  brought 
him." 

"  Ay,  that  he  did.  Persuaded  the  cavaliere  rusticano 
that  he  would  find  his  bride  prompt  and  pleasant  at  Le 
Pergole,  and  a  parish  priest  in  his  stole ;  and  that  with 
two  words  the  clandestino  would  make  Donna  Costanza 
his  loving  wife.  Oh,  how  we  did  laugh  when  the  poor 
innocent  came  tramping  into  the  yard,  big  voice  and 
orders  to  everybody;  we  all  running  as  if  it  was  a 
Vesuvio — a  carbineer — on  horseback.  The  Princess 
and  her  guards  were  in  another  wing — a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away.  Then  he  dismounted,  and  Livorno  after 
him.  But  Santa  Fiora — when  they  were  both  inside, 
the  bolts  drawn,  and  all  as  our  manutengolo  had  ar- 


292  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BooK  III. 

ranged — off  with  the  capobanda's  hat — a  low  bow — 
and  '  Signori  illustrissimi,  a  thousand  pardons,  but — you 
are  my  prisoners ! ' ' 

The  remembrance  was  too  much  for  Carluccio;  the 
young  brigand  shook  with  laughter,  until  I  could  hear 
in  his  voice  a  nervous  choking.  "  Ah,  but  the  Marchese 
— the  Vesuvio!"  he  repeated.  "  How  superb  he  was! 
And  what  a  fright  overtook  him  when  Santa  Fiora  put 
him  under  guard,  and  he  was  led,  shivering  and  shaking, 
into  the  large  underground  catacomb  where  he  had  to 
spend  the  night!" 

"  He  never  saw  Costanza !  Came  to  no  interview  with 
her?" 

"  Never  once.  She,  indeed,  asked  a  hundred  times 
for  him;  since  it  was  her  belief  that  he  had  planned 
and  executed  the  abduction.  But  no  one  went  near  her 
apartments  except  Candia  and  me.  I  had  my  orders. 
Livorno  himself  did  not  sleep  at  all  that  night,  but 
stalked  up  and  down  like  a  specter.  So  the  play  went 
on  till  the  third  day.  By  that  time,  Lucera's  proud 
stomach  was  brought  low." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  Had  he  given  up  his  claim 
to  the  lady?" 

"  Yes,  and  more.  He  was  willing  to  write  as  Santa 
Fiora  dictated  to  his  steward  at  home — there  was  a 
pretty  ransom  in  prospect,  which  we  all  intended  to 
share.  Livorno  would  take  none  of  it  this  time — gen- 
erous, was  n't  he  ?  That  settled,  the  masked  riders  ap- 
peared on  the  scene  after  dark — last  Monday  night,  just 
a  week  ago — invited  Donna  Costanza  to  mount  without 
violence,  which  she  did,  and  commenced  their  journey 
in  the  direction  of  the  Gran  Sasso.  At  a  proper  dis- 
tance behind  them  rode  Livorno  with  a  couple  more 
of  our  men.  I  went  along,  also,  for  several  miles;  I 
managed  to  say  one  word  to  the  Princess;  then  turned 
off  by  the  master's  order,  and  rode  back  to  Le  Pergole. 


CHAP.  XXI.]        SAN  PIETRO  AT  MIDNIGHT  293 

There  I  was  kept  busy  until  yesterday,  when  they  sent 
me  into  Rome,  and  here  I  am  at  your  service." 

"But  what  has  become  of  Costanza?  What  does 
Livorno  intend?" 

"  I  cannot  tell,  except  that  he  never  will  give  back 
the  Princess  but  on  his  own  terms.  Rather  than  that, 
he  will  stick  at  nothing — murder  would  be  the  least  of 
his  revenge." 

"  And  the  Marchese?  " 

"  Will  be  ransomed  and  set  free — when  the  play  of 
Donna  Costanza  is  played  out." 

We  talked  another  hour  until  I  knew  all  Carluccio 
had  seen  and  heard.  His  fears  waxed  greater  as  the 
night  sped  on.  This  open  space  under  cover  of  dark- 
ness alone  had  seemed  to  secure  him  from  his  confed- 
erates. "  But  I  don't  care  if  Giovanni  is  told,"  he 
concluded,  "  for  like  me  the  poor  soul  wants  freedom ; 
he  is  sick  of  Livorno  and  his  masnadieri.  Have  you 
any  way  out  of  the  pit,  Signor  ?  Show  us  and  we  climb 
up  after  you." 

"  There  is  no  way  but  to  inform  the  authorities,"  I 
said  at  the  end  of  my  long  meditations.  "  I  shall  re- 
quire some  forty-eight  hours  to  put  in  execution  a  part 
of  my  plan.  That  done,  you  and  I,  Carlo  mio,  will  pay 
a  visit  to  Don  Camillo  Sorelli,  the  Minister  of  Grace 
and  Justice.  Oh,  you  need  not  shake  all  over ;  we  have 
to  face  death,  and  better  in  a  good  cause  than  aiding 
these  devils.  Courage,  lad;  be  a  man." 

"  I  will — I  will  be  brave — a  malandrino  should  not 
be  a  coward.  I  come  to  you  at  Giovanni's.  Swear  it, 
you  say?  There,  it  is  sworn."  He  repeated  his  vow  to 
the  Madonna  del  Carmine ;  and  we  parted  with  a  clasp 
of  the  hand. 

Since  then,  I  have  done  nothing  but  put  together 
from  the  fragments  and  half  lines  of  my  diary  this 


294  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BooK  III. 

chronicle,  which  I  intend  to  lay  before  Cardinal  Ligario, 
telling  him  all  things  as  they  happened.  Giovanni  will 
see  that  his  friend  Masillo  forwards  the  papers  immedi- 
ately to  Vienna.  Is  Gaetano  with  him  ?  Carluccio  had 
no  tidings  of  Roccaforte  since  the  abduction ;  but  he 
was  sure  the  old  Prince,  stunned  by  his  daughter's  dis- 
appearance, would  be  slow  to  call  in  the  public  officers, 
as  dreading  the  horrid  reprisals  that  might  be  taken,  for 
which  there  were  precedents  more  cruel  than  any  death. 
If,  then,  I  persuade  the  Cardinal  of  my  innocence  all 
through  these  calamitous  days ;  if  I  show  Tiberio^in  his 
true  character,  we  can  at  last  join  forces  against  him. 
But  Camillo  must  be  won  over,  too.  It  is  incredible 
that  he  should  have  any  share  in  crimes  and  treasons 
so  unnatural  as  these.  He  cannot  resist  the  evidence 
we  shall  lay  before  him  ;  more  is  yet  to  be  had,  perhaps, 
if  my  other  design  succeeds,  of  which  there  is  now  no 
time  to  speak. 

I  have  done.  In  a  few  minutes  my  young  bandit  will 
be  knocking  at  the  door.  Then  we  go  forth,  danger  on 
every  side,  death  possible  from  a  hundred  lurking-places. 
I  look  round  this  poor  little  room — who  knows  whether 
I  shall  enter  it  again?  All  the  while  I  have  been  writ- 
ing, a  single  image,  clear  as  in  a  mirror,  has  remained 
in  my  sight — Costanza's  pale  face,  foreboding  what  may 
happen.  Yet  I  feel  a  boundless  confidence  when  I  think 
how  her  spirit  is  wrought  up  to  heroism — how  she  has 
ever  moved  in  a  world  of  angelic  purity  and  divine 
courage.  Heaven  grant  she  may  be  true  to  herself! 

There  is  Carluccio.  I  seal  my  packet  instantly ;  hand 
it  to  Finocchio — it  is  my  life,  I  shall  tell  him,  that  he  is 
carrying — and  now  for  Tiberio !  What  will  the  end  be  ? 
I  know  not — except  that  he  or  I  must  go  down ;  which 
of  us  it  matters  little,  provided  Costanza  be  saved. 


BOOK    IV 

THE    SUN    GOES   DOWN 


CHAPTER   XXII 

INSURRECTION 

WHEN  we  passed  into  the  streets,  I  became  aware 
that  some  unusual  stir  was  filling  them — men  and 
women  were  streaming  out  from  every  side  alley,  and  con- 
tributing to  swell  a  current  that  flowed  in  the  direction 
we  ourselves  were  pursuing.  A  hollow  murmur,  as  of 
words  exchanged  passionately  and  echoed  back  from 
twenty  different  sounding-boards,  rose  upon  the  air, 
indistinct  but  menacing  and  atrocious.  The  crowd  was 
mingled  of  all  descriptions,  and  a  certain  ragged  regi- 
ment, ill-favored,  unsavory,  and  fierce  in  its  tattered 
wretchedness,  went  along  with  men  decently  attired, 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  as  if  some  common  cause  had  this 
day  swept  distinction  of  ranks  into  the  pit,  and  all  were 
equal  that  marched  under  the  banners  of  the  Regions, 
displayed  on  high  in  a  straggling  column. 

"What  is  all  this  about?"  I  inquired  of  Carluccio, 
pressing  forward  to  get  in  front  of  the  mob,  which  was 
heading  for  the  Piazza  Colonna. 

He  replied  in  a  low  aside :  "  Have  n't  you  heard 
the  news?  It  came  early  this  morning." 

"No;  what  news?" 

"  Great  battle  lost  in  Africa ;  six  hundred  of  our  sol- 
diers killed;  five  thousand  taken  prisoners.  The  Ro- 
mans are  out  of  their  senses  with  rage;  quite  rabid — 

297 


298  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

look  at  their  faces.  These  are  going  to  the  Colonna  to 
demonstrate  against  the  Ministry." 

My  companion  spoke  in  snatches,  pausing  between 
to  wave  his  cap  from  time  to  time  and  shout,  "  Viva 
1'Italia!  Abbasso  il  Minister© !  Viva  1'Armata!  Al 
diavolo  Scanza  e  consorti ! "  Such  were  the  cries  around, 
which  my  bandit  copied  and  improved  upon  with  a 
gusto  as  hearty  as  it  was  embarrassing  to  a  man  bent  on 
my  present  business.  But  the  marching  column  took 
up  that  lusty  refrain,  and  gave  it  an  accent  that  pierced 
the  ear  like  some  shrill  and  murderous  pipe.  I  could 
make  out  not  one  single  cry  of  "  Evviva  il  Re!"  It 
was  the  Army  they  acclaimed,  not  the  King. 

And  as  the  stream  gathered  force,  and  enthusiasm 
mounted,  Carluccio,  the  improvised  fugleman,  led  a 
chorus  of  tumult,  in  which  "  Abbasso  Scanza! "  was  the 
prevailing  note.  I  dared  not  stop  his  mouth,  lest  the 
populace,  turning  on  a  foreigner,  should  rend  me  by 
way  of  preliminary  to  their  feast  of  vengeance.  But  I 
cursed  the  Southern  rabbia — the  mood  at  once  savage 
and  cowardly — that  is  wont  to  seize  upon  these  natures 
in  a  day  of  passion.  There  was  my  wild  young  Apollo, 
his  hair  streaming  ,his  eyes  lighted  with  sudden  fire,  yell- 
ing out  these  death-cries,  heedless  of  all  besides.  He  had 
forgotten  Tiberio,  thought  nothing  of  our  conversation 
on  the  steps  of  St.  Peter's,  was  oblivious  of  the  oath  he 
had  sworn ;  and  now  he  swept  me  along  with  him  in 
the  mob  that  rushed  down  the  Corso  and  invaded  the 
Colonna,  shrieking  out  of  its  ten  thousand  throats, 
"Viva  1'Armata!  Scanza  giu!  Vendetta!"  The 
bearers  waved  their  flags  and  banners  frantically.  At 
their  approach,  doors  were  closed  in  terror,  shutters 
hastily  put  up,  and  itinerant  venders  fled  in  all 
directions  with  their  wares,  like  sea-fowl  before  a 
storm. 

There  seemed  to  be  no  leaders  in  this  chaotic  dance. 


CHAP.  XXII.]  INSURRECTION  299 

Every  Region,  I  thought,  must  have  leaped  into  riot 
by  an  overmastering  impulse,  without  waiting  for  orders 
— who,  indeed,  was  there  to  give  them?  Yet,  after  a 
deal  of  incoherent  clamor — when  the  piazza  could  hold 
no  more,  though  fresh  detachments  kept  coming  on — 
individuals  were  seen  pushing  their  way  toward  the 
quaint  emblematic  standards  that  rose  like  masts  above 
the  heads  of  the  multitudes;  and  these  men  were  well 
dressed,  resembling  the  type  of  the  avvocato,  the 
schoolmaster,  or  the  journalist.  I  caught  some  popu- 
lar names ;  I  heard  it  whispered  around  me,  "  Ecco  i 
Socialisti ;  they  will  be  preaching  to  us  soon." 

But  while  the  rostrum  was  getting  ready,  a  young 
fellow,  in  the  uniform  of  an  artilleryman,  sprang  upon 
a  table  in  front  of  the  Emperor's  Column,  and  began 
to  pour  out  curses  on  the  civilians  who  had  sent  his 
comrades  to  perish  at  the  hand  of  blacks  in  Abyssinia. 
The  storm  which  this  boy's  eloquence  evoked  beggars 
description.  He  had  evidently  slipped  out  of  barracks 
to  follow  the  procession,  the  young  rebel — would  he  he 
shot  for  desertion?  But  his  voice  was  broken  with 
sobs;  it  could  not  frame  itself  into  coherent  speech; 
and  as  he  stood  up,  panting,  gesticulating,  turning  his 
swarthy,  handsome  face  now  to  this  side  and  now  to 
that,  in  attitudes  which  seemed  to  implore  a  brave  sol- 
dier's death  for  his  brothers  in  arms,  instead  of  the 
treachery  that  had  led  them  to  be  slaughtered  by  bar- 
barians, the  crowd  were  kindled  to  a  passion  of  pity  and 
horror.  They  took  him  to  be  the  visible  embodiment 
of  their  Italy,  pleading  against  traitors ;  his  inarticulate 
sentences  were  drowned  in  applause,  in  curses,  in  cries 
of  vengeance.  Poor  lad!  He  was  not  more  than 
twenty,  slender  and  delicate  in  appearance  as  just  out 
of  school.  How  many  of  the  six  hundred  lying  dead 
beneath  an  African  sun,  far  from  mother,  sister,  and 
sweetheart,  resembled  this  youthful  warrior!  He  was 


3oo  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

willing  to  die,  but  not  to  be  dishonored.  The  Roman 
mob,  fiercest  of  city  mobs  in  Europe,  felt  with  him,  but 
he  could  not  point  out  a  victim  on  which  to  wreak  their 
indignation ;  and  his  fitful  outcries  were  but  a  prelude, 
setting  them  to  the  key  of  murderous  energy,  yet  wait- 
ing until  some  mightier  musician  should  raise  his  baton 
over  the  chaos.  A  Socialist  orator,  taking  the  young 
soldier's  hand,  began  now  to  make  a  text  of  him.  It 
was  still  to  the  tune,  "  Abbasso  il  Minister©  " ;  but  it 
went  on  a  bolder  theme,  "  Morte  a  Scanza!"  I  seized 
my  chance,  dragged  Carluccio  out  from  the  weltering 
confusion,  and  when  we  had  got  clear  of  the  crowded 
streets,  rushed  on  with  him  to  the  Via  Venti  Settembre. 
When  we  arrived  it  was  empty  of  people.  "  They  will 
come  this  way  all  the  same,"  said  Carlo,  pointing  to  the 
Ministry  of  War  as  we  passed  it;  "had  n't  we  better 
wait  till  to-morrow?" 

"  Not  an  instant,"  I  answered,  urging  him  along. 
"  To-morrow  there  may  be  no  Government.  Let  us 
make  sure  of  Camillo  without  delay." 

The  guards  had  been  doubled  at  the  Quirinal,  in 
front  of  the  various  Ministries,  and  doubtless  all  over 
the  city.  We  could  hear  as  we  ran  the  galloping  of 
more  than  one  detachment  of  cavalry  on  its  way  toward 
the  Corso.  How  would  it  be  at  Camillo's  door?  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  what  stratagem  to  employ,  so  that, 
even  in  an  hour  big  with  public  issues,  the  Prince 
should  be  compelled  to  an  interview.  Reaching  the  por- 
tone,  we  observed  that  its  great  gates  were  closed  ;  I  took 
this  for  a  favorable  sign;  Camillo  must  be  at  home. 
Carluccio  rang  the  bell  long  and  loudly.  A  terrified 
face  appeared  inside  the  wicket ;  a  voice  warned  us  to 
go  about  our  business.  I  answered  that  my  business 
was  with  the  Minister;  that  it  was  urgent  in  the  ex- 
treme, thrusting  at  the  same  time  an  envelop  through 
the  bars,  which  contained  my  supplication  as  coming 


CHAP.  XXII.]  INSURRECTION  301 

from  Tiberio  Sforza,  whose  name  I  wrote  in  full,  with 
his  assumed  title  underneath. 

The  porter  disappeared.  We  remained  outside, 
anxious  and  uncertain.  For  the  sounds  of  a  growing 
agitation  were  coming  up  the  wynd,  and  it  was  con- 
ceivable that  the  mob,  if  disturbed  at  their  speech-mak- 
ing in  the  Pia/za  Colonna,  would  be  marching  over 
the  Quirinal  steps  and  taking  possession  of  this  street 
where  the  Minister  held  his  office  who  was  directly  re- 
sponsible for  the  war.  Some  minutes  elapsed;  then 
the  small  aperture  was  cautiously  unfastened  and  ad- 
mission given  to  us.  The  Prince  was  in  the  large  saloon 
which  looked  out  on  the  street.  He  would  see  me. 
"  And  my  friend  too,"  I  added ;  "  we  come  on  the  same 
errand."  The  porter  looked  doubtful;  but  we  darted 
past  him  and  ran  up  the  stairs. 

When  I  entered  the  saloon,  Carluccio  following,  I  per- 
ceived that  the  Prince  was  not  alone.  Standing  at  the 
window,  which  opened  on  a  balcony,  the  stout  form  of 
Signer  Scanza  darkened  daylight.  He  did  not  turn 
round  or  give  heed  to  us;  his  attention  was  fixed  on 
the  sounds,  every  instant  adding  to  their  volume,  that 
came  up  hither  like  the  growling  of  distant  thunder. 
Camillo  advanced,  bowed,  and  motioned  me  to  a  seat. 
He  sank  down  in  one  opposite  me,  and  drew  a  deep 
and  painful  breath,  his  cheek  flushing  and  paling  alter- 
nately. 

"  I  remember  you  as  an  English  journalist,"  he 
began  with  no  slight  embarrassment ;  "  you  came  here 
one  evening  with  the  Count.  Do  I  understand  that 
you  bring  me  a  message  from  him?" 

"  Not  at  all,"  was  my  reply.  "  The  message  I  bring 
is  one  he  would  be  the  last  to  send.  This  young  man," 
pointing  to  Carluccio,  who  smiled  with  great  simplicity 
on  being  mentioned,  "  was  till  a  few  days  ago  in  Santa 
Fiora's  band.  He  will  tell  you,  Prince  Camillo,  what 


302  ARDEN    MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

Sforza  has  just  done ;  after  which  you  will  act  as  your 
conscience,  which  I  know  is  that  of  an  honorable  man, 
may  dictate." 

"What  has  Sforza  done?"  stammered  the  Prince, 
speaking  low  and  glancing  toward  his  father-in-law, 
"  what  has  he  done  ?  " 

"  He  has  taken  your  sister,  Donna  Costanza,  by 
force  into  the  mountains,  my  Prince,"  said  Carluccio; 
"  she  is  there  in  his  power  at  the  moment  I  address 
you." 

"  My  sister,  Costanza!  Taken  her — holds  her  in  his 
power!  Madonna  mia!"  murmured  the  unhappy  man, 
divided  between  amazement  at  this  undreamed  of  news 
and  fear  lest  the  Prime  Minister  should  overhear  it. 
"Come  this  way — this  way — for  God's  sake!"  He 
pulled  aside  a  curtain,  and  led  us  into  another  room. 
"  Now  tell  me  the  plain  truth,"  he  said  sternly  to  Car- 
luccio ;  "  if  you  add  one  word  of  falsehood — mark  me — 
I  have  power  to  send  you  to  the  galleys." 

"  Send  me  there  when  you  catch  me  in  a  lie,  my 
Prince,"  answered  the  lad  jubilantly.  "The  Signer 
believes  me — he  is  an  Englishman — so  you  may." 

"  I  am  certain  he  is  telling  no  lie ;  but  you  will  have 
proofs  in  abundance  when  he  is  done  speaking,"  I  said. 

"Then  be  sharp  and  out  with  all  you  know,"  ex- 
claimed the  Prince ;  "  I  have  long  been  an  invalid ;  I 
cannot  bear  suspense.  This  morning,  too — !  Speak, 
I  say." 

The  young  man,  helped  by  questions  from  Camillo 
or  myself,  told  his  story  without  hesitation,  in  less  time 
than  would  be  imagined.  It  bore  the  seal  of  truth  on 
its  front.  But  its  effect  on  the  Minister  was  overpower- 
ing. "The  villain!  the  damned,  heartless  villain!"  he 
muttered,  again  and  again,  while  the  blood  seemed  to 
forsake  his  heart.  At  the  end  he  was  trembling  vio- 
lently, and  could  not  speak.  We  sat  there,  appalled 


CHAP.  XXIL]  INSURRECTION  303 

by  his  weakness,  yet  not  daring  to  call  in  the  great  man 
whose  presence  in  the  saloon  was  now  audible  by  fre- 
quent exclamations,  as  if  he  were  watching  a  spectacle 
in  the  street  below.  The  distant  thunder  had  come 
closer;  a  confused  movement  and  sound  of  voices  filled 
the  air  as  with  the  vibration  of  some  powerful  machinery. 
But  Camillo,  thrown  back  in  the  seat  which  he  had 
taken  while  listening  to  my  companion's  narrative, 
seemed  hardly  aware  of  what  was  happening.  His 
features  were  livid ;  his  breath  came  in  slow  gasps. 

"My  poor  father!"  he  said  at  length,  making  an 
effort  to  recover  his  self-possession.  "  Alone,  you  tell 
me!  Gaetano  at  a  distance;  perhaps  deluded  into 
some  plot,  of  which  there  have  lately  been  threatenings 
— nay,  which  is  breaking  out — you  hear  it,  Signer!  — 
in  sputterings  of  rebellion  at  this  moment.  My  father 
struck  desolate — son  lost,  daughter  ravished  from  him ! 
What  can  I  do,  merciful  heavens?" 

We  were  interrupted  by  several  messengers  who  had 
come  flying  down  the  road,  and  now  mounted  the  stairs 
without  asking  permission.  They  had  been  despatched 
from  the  Ministry  of  War,  from  the  Quirinal  and  other 
official  quarters,  bringing  verbal  entreaties  or  advices  to 
the  Premier,  who  was  known  to  be  at  his  son-in-law's. 
The  house  which  had  been  silent  echoed  to  many 
voices.  But  over  them  all  rose  and  roared  a  storm- 
wind  bearing  toward  us  the  popular  tumult.  Never 
before  had  I  listened  to  sounds  so  strange,  so  preter- 
human ;  their  high  shrieking  soprano  sang  in  the  blast, 
penetrated  to  every  corner  of  the  mansion,  died  away 
only  to  begin  again.  Curiosity  swept  us  all  one  way, 
the  Prince,  Carluccio,  and  myself — the  men  who  had 
just  arrived,  and  the  secretaries  whom  Scanza  was 
summoning  about  him  in  loud,  angry  tones.  We  en- 
tered the  saloon  confusedly  together,  and  crowded  to 
the  windows.  But  in  front  of  us  all,  undaunted,  stood 


304  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

the  old  Sicilian,  an  opera-glass  in  his  hand,  which  he 
frequently  bracketed  on  the  concourse  of  Romans  now 
rushing  hither  and  thither,  some  to  the  Ministry  of 
Finance,  others  to  that  of  War,  uncertain  which  to  at- 
tack, but  resolute  in  finding  a  scapegoat  for  the  late 
reverses  among  the  chiefs  of  the  Government.  And 
still  they  cried,  "  Abbasso  il  Minister© !  Morte  a 
Scanza!" 

From  our  windows,  which  almost  looked,  as  I  have 
said,  on  the  British  Embassy,  we  had  a  complete  view 
of  the  street  and  the  mob  that  now  held  it  from  end 
to  end.  In  the  Piazza  Colonna  they  had  appeared  to 
be  destitute  of  leaders ;  since  then  a  word  of  command 
had  been  somehow  given;  for,  despite  the  surging  to 
and  fro,  there  was  an  attempt  at  military  order.  "  The 
ruffians  have  soldiers  among  them,"  said  Scanza  to  his 
son-in-law ;  "  look  how  they  are  falling  into  line.  If 
they  could  get  a  few  rifles,  we  should  hear  the  bullets 
whistling  about  our  heads.  Fools!  do  they  want  a 
state  of  siege  ?  I  would  have  spared  Rome  that  indig- 
nity; but  sangue  di  Cristo,  they  shall  have  it,  once  we 
are  out  of  this!" 

He  began  to  give  orders  aloud,  not  stirring  from  the 
balcony,  while  his  secretaries  noted  them  down  or 
sent  the  most  urgent  through  the  telephone — there  was 
one  in  the  saloon — to  heads  of  departments.  "  As  long 
as  this  infernal  masnada  only  screams  and  bellows,"  he 
said,  "  we  will  have  no  shooting.  Ah,  you  Roman  mob, 
when  were  you  ever  loyal  ?  You  are  still  the  dregs  of 
Romulus,  accidente  to  you!'' 

A  mob  not  very  picturesque,  but  gaunt  and  grim,  as 
it  moved  with  sudden  bounds,  incited  by  conflicting 
emotions,  between  the  two  Ministries  and  up  toward 
the  Royal  Palace,  not  determined  yet  whether  it  would 
appeal  to  the  King  for  Scanza's  dismissal  or  attempt 
something  on  its  own  account.  The  sentinels  on  guard 


CHAP.  XXII.]  INSURRECTION  305 

— brave  young  spirits — paced  backward  and  forward  as 
if  nothing  were  to  be  dreaded  from  the  seething  multi- 
tude around  them.  No  other  military  had  appeared  in 
•  the  Via  Venti  Settembre.  And  every  vehicle  having 
fled  as  the  rioters  came  on,  there  were  wanting  materials 
for  a  barricade  which  might  hinder  the  people  from 
being  taken  in  the  rear,  as  they  moved  farther  and  farther 
down  toward  the  Porta  Pia.  Scouts  came  and  went ;  it 
would  seem  that  the  leaders  were  expecting  some  intel- 
ligence ;  and  while  the  vociferation  and  the  movement 
continued  to  increase,  I  observed  how  the  banners  of 
the  fourteen  Regions  were  taking  their  station,  as  if  to 
afford  a  center  round  which  the  rank  and  file  might 
group  themselves. 

Singular  enough,  these  heraldic  devices,  which  go 
back  beyond  the  age  of  chivalry  to  the  Roman  legions 
— nay,  for  aught  we  can  tell,  to  the  Seven  against 
Thebes.  There  were  the  three  long  rapiers  of  Trevi,  dis- 
posed horizontally  on  their  shield ;  the  hillocks  of  Monti, 
likewise  three  in  number;  the  crescent  of  the  Field  of 
Mars ;  the  bridge  of  Ponte ;  the  wolf's  jaws  of  Campi- 
telli ;  the  wheel  of  La  Ripa  and  the  winged  griffin  of 
Parione,  with  all  the  other  quaint  or  mysterious  em- 
blems whereby  the  Roman  people  has  chosen  to  signify 
its  pride  in  dominion  and  its  passion  in  revolt.  Some 
flags,  too,  had  been  seized  out  of  churches  or  sacristies, 
and  were  borne  along,  having  embroidered  on  their 
fronts  the  images  of  the  saints,  the  Madonna,  and  the 
heart  of  Christ,  with  prayers  interwoven  that  jarred 
exceedingly  on  the  rough  music  to  which  we  were  lis- 
tening. By  a  stroke  of  irony,  one  tall  figure  in  a  mask 
bore  aloft  the  Turkish  flag  stolen,  no  doubt,  from  some 
community  which  sheltered  itself  in  Rome  beneath  the 
protection  of  the  Sublime  Porte.  Strange  and  splendid 
to  gaze  upon,  that  silver  crescent  and  the  morning  star, 
displayed  on  a  purple  cloud  soft  as  the  dawn!  Per- 


20 


306  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BooK  IV. 

haps  it  was  carried  in  mockery,  as  betokening  the  de- 
feat of  Christians  by  a  barbaric  half  Mohammedan 
power.  Near  it  drooped  on  a  staff  the  flag  of  Italy, 
its  tricolor  veiled  in  mourning.  And  this  significant 
heathen  banner  now,  at  a  signal,  commenced  to  lead  the 
way  toward  the  house  in  which  we  were  assembled. 

"  Abbasso  i  Ministri!  Morte  a  Scanza!"  All  other 
cries  were  swallowed  up  in  this. 

"  The  Roman  dogs,"  muttered  the  Premier,  as  he  saw 
them  coming.  His  color  mounted ;  and  now  he  stood 
silent,  the  rest  of  us  falling  a  little  behind  him,  so  that 
he  seemed  to  be  alone,  a  solitary  figure,  looking  down 
in  contempt  on  the  thousands  who  hurtled  forward,  as 
yet  ignorant  that  their  scapegoat  was  found.  Then  one 
caught  sight  of  the  well-known  features  and  yelled  to 
his  neighbor ;  I  saw  the  shock  pass  like  electricity  from 
soul  to  soul,  along  all  the  waving  lines  and  to  the  very 
extreme  where  fresh  waves  came  tumbling;  and  a  cry 
rose  to  Heaven,  frightful  as  the  roar  of  a  cataract. 

But  Scanza  held  his  ground.  They  were  making  ten 
thousand  missiles  of  his  name  and  hurling  them  into 
the  man's  face.  "  Scanza,  Scanza!  Siciliano !  traditore ! " 
The  clamor  should  have  struck  him  senseless  in  its 
enormous  violence;  yet  he  did  not  budge.  All  eyes 
were  on  him  now ;  all  mouths  agape,  jaws  set  to  devour 
the  common  enemy.  They  shrieked  at  him  a  hundred 
times  the  name  of  that  disastrous  battle-field;  they 
varied  it  only  with  coarse  epithets,  or  made  it  sting 
with  the  addition  of  a  charge  more  odious  than  treason ; 
crying  repeatedly  that  he  was  a  thief  as  well  as  a  mer- 
chant of  their  soldiers'  blood  ;  asking  what  he  had  done 
with  the  gold  of  the  Banca  Centrale.  I  watched  the 
Minister  to  see  whether  he  would  flinch  before  these 
handfuls  of  mud ;  but  no,  not  a  muscle  quivered.  How 
unlike  Don  Camillo,  half  prostrate  on  a  couch,  his  lips 
dry,  his  eyes  glazed  with  sickly  terror!  At  every  fresh 


CHAP.  XXII.]  INSURRECTION  307 

insult  he,  poor  devil,  shook  in  our  sight.  Nevertheless, 
knowing  what  a  message  we  had  brought  him  not  an  hour 
ago — that  his  ancient  house  was  dishonored,  his  sister 
in  the  grasp  of  a  villain — who  could  refuse  to  feel  for  the 
man,  stricken  with  so  many  wounds,  face  to  face  with  a 
catastrophe  that  must  hurl  him  and  his  friends  f  rom  power  ? 

I  approached  him.  "  Don  Camillo,"  I  said,  "  will  you 
let  the  Prime  Minister  be  murdered?" 

He  regarded  me  with  haggard  looks.  "  Murdered, 
no!  How  can  I  help  it?" 

"  Persuade  him  to  leave  the  balcony.  There  are  men 
in  the  crowd  with  arms  which  they  will  use  presently. 
Up,  I  implore  you ;  get  him  away." 

While  I  was  arguing  the  point,  a  message  came 
through  the  telephone  and  was  handed  to  Scanza.  He 
paled  slightly  on  reading  it.  "  Gentlemen,  his  Majesty 
has  arrived  at  the  Quirinal,"  he  said,  "  and  requests  my 
presence.  I  must  obey.  As  I  cannot  reach  the  Palace 
without  having  this  street  cleared,  I  am  now  going  to 
transmit  an  order  for  the  advance  of  the  cavalry.  I 
take  you  all  to  witness  that  I  do  so  under  compulsion, 
not  of  free  choice.  The  King's  service  takes  prece- 
dence even  of  the  lives  of  a  Roman  mob." 

He  smiled  grimly,  and  gave  the  orders  where  he  was 
standing,  exposed  to  the  tempest  of  imprecations  which 
had  never  ceased  from  the  moment  he  was  observed  by 
the  rioters;  but  now  I  felt  the  supreme  crisis  had  ar- 
rived. "  Signor  Minister,"  I  said,  going  up  to  him, 
"  you  will  surely  not  embarrass  his  Majesty  and  pre- 
cipitate a  revolution,  by  making  yourself  a  mark  for 
assassins.  Is  it  not  your  duty,  as  a  loyal  servant  of  the 
Crown,  to  spare  it  the  consequences  that  will  follow — 
on  your  murder?  Permit  me  to  lead  you  from  this 
spot.  It  may  otherwise  become  infamous  to  posterity, 
and  associated  with  the  last  hours  in  Rome  of  the 
House  of  Savoy." 


308  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

The  Minister  heard  my  speech  with  astonishment. 
"You  are  English,"  he  muttered;  "you  have  a  cool 
head."  He  stepped  back  into  the  room,  or  rather  was 
pulled  into  it  by  a  dozen  arms ;  the  next  instant  a  vol- 
ley of  stones  came  from  below,  and  every  pane  of  glass 
fell  in  fragments.  Camillo  ran  distractedly  to  the 
Sicilian.  "  Are  you  injured?  "  he  exclaimed,  "  oh,  day 
of  misfortunes!  The  world  is  going  to  pieces!" 

"  No,  no,"  answered  Scanza,  roughly  shaking  him 
off.  "  Why  should  I  be  injured  ?  A  finimondo,  you 
call  it?  Eh,  who  knows?  If  I  had  my  own  way,  it 
should  not  be  the  end  of  my  Ministry ;  I  would  make 
these  Romans  dance  first." 

We  could  no  longer  approach  the  windows,  now  gap- 
ing as  if  rent  by  small  shot.  The  destruction  effected 
and  Scanza's  hasty  disappearance  had  done  something 
toward  quieting  the  mob ;  although  we  could  distin- 
guish loud  and  sinister  cries,  of  which  the  most  frequent 
was  to  bring  fire  and  burn  the  great  gates  of  the  man- 
sion. Would  these  miscreants  have  time  to  carry  out 
their  threats  ?  I  made  no  question  that  once  within  the 
palazzo  they  would  finish  the  day  in  blood,  nor  leave  a 
soul  alive  when  their  hands  were  busy  at  the  old  work 
of  slaughter  from  which  they  had  never  been  weaned. 
On  our  side,  we  possessed  neither  arms  nor  the  means 
of  escaping.  It  was  an  absorbing  ten  minutes  that  fol- 
lowed. Luckily,  in  this  street  of  stately  buildings,  the 
materials  for  a  conflagration  did  not  exist ;  they  would 
have  to  be  conveyed  from  a  distance.  A  few  shots 
were  fired  at  random ;  twice  the  room  was  struck,  the 
second  ball  shattering  a  huge  mirror  above  the  fireplace. 
But  we  had  retreated  to  the  inner  apartment,  keeping 
silence  now,  though  with  a  concentrated  fury  which 
our  looks,  if  I  might  argue  from  the  faces  around  me, 
expressed  more  eloquently  than  any  words.  The  tele- 
phone was  still  within  reach ;  it  announced  a  reply  to 


CHAP.  XXII.]  INSURRECTION  309 

Scanza's  message  before  many  minutes  had  passed. 
And  soon,  the  fierce  discussion  at  our  gates  took  a 
new  and  to  us  a  welcome  accent.  There  were  cries  not 
only  of  indignation,  but  of  alarm  and  terror.  "  The 
soldiers  are  upon  them,"  shouted  Scanza,  darting  to 
the  window  once  more. 

The  tide  had  turned.  A  magnificent  sight  it  was, 
that  charge  of  the  horsemen  with  drawn  swords,  advan- 
cing in  a  line  that  swept  the  Via  Venti  Settembre,  like 
a  wave  crested  with  foam,  moving  on  swiftly,  driving 
before  it  the  broken  columns — men  and  women  uttering 
cries  of  despair,  the  banners  shaken,  tossed  hither  and 
thither,  and  finally  going  down  in  a  rush  and  a  scramble, 
as  though  the  cavalry  were  trampling  on  them.  Yes, 
down  went  the  ensigns  of  old  Rome  before  these  rough- 
riders  from  the  North,  in  whose  eyes  wivern  and  dragon 
signified  no  more  than  the  once  imperial  letters  S.P.Q.R. 
which  decorated  arch  and  temple  as  the  merest  of 
arabesques.  From  our  coign  of  vantage  we  beheld  a 
flight  into  all  side  streets,  and  over  garden  walls,  of 
the  braggarts  who  within  one  short  half-hour  had  been 
threatening  us  with  fire  and  slaughter. 

They  seemed  cowards  too  deep  in  grain  to  provoke 
bloodshed ;  as  they  ran,  the  horsemen  beat  and  drove 
them  with  the  flat  of  their  sabers ;  but  all  was  not  so  to 
terminate.  Here  and  there  an  arm,  bolder  than  the  rest, 
leveled  its  weapon  at  the  oncoming  detachment.  Into 
the  summer  atmosphere  a  white  smoke  puffed ;  we 
heard  the  "ping!  ping!"  of  more  than  one  discharge. 
Though  aimless  and  sudden  in  this  headlong  flight,  the 
chance  bullet  told;  a  horseman  fell  from  his  saddle; 
another  tumbled  sidewise.  There  was  an  instant  sway- 
ing backward  of  the  mob  against  their  pursuers ;  but 
these,  lashed  into  rage  when  their  comrades  had  fallen, 
now  galloped  furiously  into  the  masses,  and  did  not 
spare  the  saber's  edge.  Men  fled  for  their  lives,  crying, 


3io  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

"  Misericordia" ;  we  saw  bodies  trampled  under  foot; 
others  were  badly  wounded.  In  not  many  minutes  the 
Via  Venti  Settembre  became  a  solitude.  But  from 
afar  we  could  hear  the  noise  of  the  captains  and  the 
shouting. 

A  squadron  of  cavalry  drew  up  in  front  of  Don 
Camillo's  palace.  Signer  Scanza  was  at  liberty  to  wait 
on  his  Sovereign;  and  a  carriage  and  pair  emerging 
into  the  courtyard,  he  took  his  seat  with  an  ambiguous 
expression  on  his  flushed  features.  In  the  middle  of 
the  road,  distinctly  showing  on  the  blocks  of  lava,  lay  a 
purple  stain :  nor  was  it  the  only  one.  His  journey  to 
the  Quirinal  would  compel  the  Minister  to  dye  his 
wheels  in  that  crimson.  He  looked  earnestly  at  it, 
then  turning  to  Camillo,  he  said  with  suppressed  fury, 
"  It  is  all  over ;  we  have  ceased  to  reign.  Manco  male, 
if  these  pretty  stains  had  darkened  the  flags  of  Palermo ! 
But  Roman  blood — spilled  on  the  sacred  stones  of  the 
capital !  Ah,  ragazzo,  you  will  have  to  surrender  your 
portfolio  before  the  Ave  Maria.  Well,  we  made  a 
good  fight  for  it." 

He  drove  on,  the  mounted  men  before  and  behind, 
as  if  he  were  a  king  out  for  an  airing,  not  a  minister 
whose  day  was  going  down  in  eclipse.  I  thought  him 
the  strongest  of  latter-day  Italians,  without  scruple  and 
without  fear.  Yet  this  man  had  been  doomed  to  fulfil 
that  prophesy  of  Tiberio  Sforza's,  which  he  uttered 
when  we  were  calling  for  the  first  time  on  Prince 
Camillo.  Near  the  entrance  to  the  Ministry  of  War  lay 
a  pool  of  which  no  rains  would  wash  out  the  remem- 
brance. I  thought  how  the  Sicilian  had  acted  up  to 
his  native  proverb,  "  Wine  is  sweet ;  but  sweeter  is  the 
blood  of  Christians."  The  explosion  had  come  before 
its  day;  no  Tiberio  was  there  to  make  it  a  first  step 
in  revolution.  But  during  those  hours  of  earthquake 
the  Monarchy  had  been  shaken,  and  I  knew  that 


CHAP.  III.]  INSURRECTION  311 

Scanza  would  be  thrown  to  the  people  lest  others  should 
fall. 

Camillo,  turning  to  go  in,  laid  a  finger  on  my  sleeve. 
"  You  will  not  desert  us,"  he  said  mildly ;  "  I  have  a 
word  for  this  giovanotto,"  looking  side  wise  at  my 
brigand. 

"  Certainly  we  shall  not  last  the  day,"  he  resumed, 
leading  us  to  a  chamber  which  overlooked  the  inner 
court.  "  I  must  make  you  acquainted  with  documents 
that  are  likely  to  pass  from  my  keeping.  We  shall  be 
undisturbed  here." 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  spasm  of  pain.  "  It  is  the 
heart,"  he  said  apologetically ;  "  I  must  ring  for  a  cor- 
dial." When  he  had  taken  it  he  addressed  me  with  a 
faint  smile.  "  You  think  me  little  better  than  a  pol- 
troon, I  dare  say.  But  in  my  youth — ah,  thirty  years 
ago — I  was  headstrong,  proud,  and  dazzled  by  golden 
hopes — an  enthusiast,  as  you  may  be  to-day.  I  quar- 
reled with  my  father;  I  took  the  side  of  the  people, 
from  which  I  have  never  swerved;  but  was  foolish 
enough — I  pray  you  mark — foolish  and  wicked  enough 
to  join  the  subterranean  lodges.  For  the  sake  of  free- 
dom, I  sold  myself  as  a  slave.  From  that  day  I  have 
not  had  one  hour  of  liberty  or  peace." 

"  Can  you  not  free  yourself  at  last?  "  I  said.  "  Roc- 
caforte  is  at  the  mercy  of  this  vile  Camorrista." 

"  I  mean  to  do  so,"  he  answered,  a  gleam  on  his  pale 
face.  "  In  any  event  I  have  not  long  to  live.  But  the 
documents  of  which  I  was  telling  you — let  me  get  them." 

He  went  to  a  great  desk,  touched  a  spring,  and 
brought  out  of  some  secret  drawer  a  bundle  of  papers 
sealed.  "  You  know  Sforza's  handwriting?  "  he  asked. 
I  replied  in  the  negative ;  no  correspondence  had  passed 
between  us. 

"  Here  you  will  find  he  has  anticipated  the  blow  you 
would  strike,"  and  he  began  to  unfold  the  papers. 


312  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

"  How,  in  God's  name?"  I  cried. 

"These  are  informations,"  said  Don  Camillo,  "which 
he  has  laid  before  me,  giving  the  name  of  every  mem- 
ber in  Santa  Fiora's  band,  with  an  account  of  their 
crimes,  a  description  of  their  persons  and  probable  dis- 
guises, and  the  means  of  capturing  them  as  soon  as  he 
should  have  got  them  safe  into  an  ambush.  I  am  wait- 
ing now — at  least,  when  you  arrived  I  was  waiting — 
for  a  signal  from  the  informer.  Then  we  should  have 
struck  with  all  our  might." 

"  Eh,  for  the  love  of  the  Madonna,  let  me  see — let 
me  see,"  ejaculated  Carluccio,  bounding  on  the  docu- 
ments with  both  hands.  "  Names,  faces,  rags,  and  all," 
he  continued,  his  eyes  lighting  up  amazingly — "  we 
were  to  be  caught,  trapped,  eaten  by  Livorno !  What, 
all  of  us?  See  here — oh,  Signer  Ardente,  look,  look! 
My  name — no  wonder — but  God  in  heaven,  see  here — 
here  is  Ascanio's  name — the  lad  that  adored  his  master, 
that  could  not  be  happy  away  from  his  heart  or  his 
eyes!  Oh,  what  place  in  hell  for  such  a  devil?  As- 
canio — yes,  read.  '  A  boy  of  fifteen,  slight,  very  fair, 
coquettish  in  his  dress,  yellow  curls  and  large  violet 
eyes;  seems  only  a  pretty  child,  but  full  of  stratagems; 
engaged  in  many  robberies.'  The  master  wrote  that! 
He  gives  up  Ascanio  to  the  galleys !  Oh,  where  can  we 
tear  the  fiend  into  shreds?  Let  me  discover  him,  my 
Prince ;  if  it  costs  me  my  life,  I  go  with  you." 

The  pity  and  rage  of  my  brigand  were  something 
beautiful  to  see — an  impression  checkered,  as  I  looked 
at  him,  by  fantastic  visions  of  the  page — the  false  Rosa- 
lind, saucily  accosting  me  in  green,  donning  the  plumed 
hat  to  show  in  what  scant  regard  I  was  held  by  Tiberio. 
But  this  quick  passion  flung  a  light  over  my  designs. 
"You  shall  be  saved,  Carluccio,"  I  cried,  seizing  him 
by  the  shoulder,  "  and  Ascanio  with  you.  Prince,  you 
have  partly  guessed,  I  perceive  it  in  your  eyes,  what  I 
came  to  propose." 


CHAP.  XXII.]  INSURRECTION  313 

"  A  free  pardon  to  Santa  Fiora,"  answered  Camillo ; 
"  it  shall  be  made  out,  ready  for  signing,  without  a 
moment's  delay.  Whoever  succeeds  me  will  not,  I 
think,  be  Sforza's  accomplice,  many  of  our  politicians 
as  are  compromised  by  the  dreams  of  their  youth,  or 
— the  greed  of  middle  age,"  he  concluded  with  a  sigh. 
The  Banca  Centrale  had  risen  up  to  confound  him  when 
he  thought  of  Scanza.  I  assented,  and  he  resumed — 

"  A  free  pardon,  conditional  on  his  giving  evidence 
that  shall  convict  the  manutengolo.  He  will  under- 
stand so  much.  But  how  to  come  upon  his  traces? 
Must  we  wait  until  Sforza  gives  the  signal?  " 

"  By  no  means,  Prince,"  I  answered ;  "  there  is  some- 
thing else." 

"  Ah,  you  would  tell  me  I  ought  to  be  at  Roccaforte, 
where  my  father  is  solitary  and  helpless.  Yes,  yes. 
But  you  come  with  me — you  and  this  young  man.  As 
soon  as  I  have  word  of  Scanza's  resignation  we  will  go 
together.  Twenty-five  years  since  I  passed  that  gate ! 
A  quarter  of  a  century !  You  know  I  never  saw  Cos- 
tanza  except  at  a  distance,  as  she  drove  through  the 
streets  of  Rome.  Signer,  I  doubt  if  I  should  recognize 
my  sister's  face."  There  was  desolation  in  his  accents. 

"  One  glance  will  scatter  your  doubt,  Don  Camillo — 
if  you  ever  see  her  alive."  To  those  fearful  words  I 
compelled  my  lips,  but  I  had  to  clutch  hold  of  the  table 
as  I  uttered  them. 

"Get  ready  now,"  he  said,  rising.  "  Unless  duty — 
imperative  duty — keeps  me  here,  we  start  this  evening." 

But  I  made  a  gesture  of  dissent.  "  Not  yet,  Prince. 
You  forget  this  precious  document.  We  must  have 
evidence  in  our  hands.  The  Duke  will  require  it. 
First  allow  me  to  take  a  copy  of  the  papers  you  have 
from  Tiberio.  I  will  beg  of  you  to  authenticate  our 
copy  with  your  seal  of  office.  After  that  is  done,  give 
me  twenty-four  hours — you  will  probably  be  unable  to 
leave  Rome  before  to-morrow  evening — and  I  may  be 


314  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

able  to  furnish  all  the  proof  we  can  desire,  though  Santa 
Fiora  should  keep  out  of  our  reach." 

"  What  is  your  idea?  "  he  inquired  anxiously.  I  told 
him  in  half  a  dozen  words.  "  Excellent,"  said  Don 
Camillo,  "  but  as  I  cannot  leave  you  henceforth  out  of 
sight,  I  will  ask  some  officers  to  accompany  you  in 
whom  I  can  place  confidence.  Promise  to  send  me 
word  how  you  succeed  at  the  earliest.  Here  is  the 
traitor's  list.  Sit  down  and  copy  it." 

In  less  than  an  hour  it  was  done.  I  had  a  faithful 
transcript,  sealed  with  the  official  seal  of  the  Ministry, 
in  my  pocket,  and  after  hasty  refreshment,  urged  upon 
us  by  the  Prince,  we  set  out  on  the  adventure  which 
for  three  days  past  had  been  calling  me.  The  long 
May  afternoon  was  going  down  in  fairy  splendor,  but 
we  could  still  perceive  on  the  blocks  of  lava  in  the  Via 
Venti  Settembre  those  dark  purple  stains,  of  which  in 
the  morning  they  had  borne  no  trace. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ASCANIO  THE  PAGE 

OUR  expedition  led  us  along  the  stately  Piazza,  of 
the  Twelve  Apostles;  and  we  were  passing  by 
the  noble  Palladian  church  when  a  carriage  driving 
toward  us  pulled  up,  a  woman's  gloved  hand  beckoned 
imperiously,  and  Signora  Tarquinia  called  in  her  ring- 
ing voice,  "  Ser  Inglese — one  moment!  What  good 
fortune  brings  you  my  way?" 

Carlo  dropped  into  the  background.  I  crossed  to 
where  the  carriage  was  halting,  and  waited  for  the  diva 
to  begin.  She  had  an  anxious  and  troubled  counte- 
nance. "  Oh,  these  fearful  times!"  she  cried.  "  I  have 
just  arrived  in  Rome  from  Porto  d'Anzo — it  was  not 
easy  to  get  in,  they  made  such  a  garbuglio  at  the  gate. 
Has  there  been  a  revolution?  They  tell  me  Scanza  is 
overthrown;  I  see  proclamations  announcing  the  state 
of  siege.  And  oh,  my  good  friend,  is  it  true,  has  Don 
Camillo's  palace  been  attacked?" 

"  I  was  present  when  it  took  place,  unfortunately," 
said  I.  The  actress  gave  me  a  peculiar  glance. 

"You  were  there?"  she  echoed.  "Unfortunate  in- 
deed!" 

Her  eyes  fell,  as  by  an  instinctive  movement,  on 
the  cameo  inserted  in  her  bracelet.  I  knew  what  it 
figured :  the  head  of  Medusa,  which  corresponds  in  its 
ghastly  loveliness,  yet  by  a  transmutation  as  superb  as 

315 


316  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

it  is  characteristic  of  the  Southern  peoples,  to  our  grin- 
ning skull  and  cross-bones ;  an  amulet,  of  course,  against 
the  jettatura. 

"Unhappy  house  of  Roccaforte!"  said  Tarquinia, 
not  lifting  her  eyes.  "  Father  and  son  estranged ;  and 
now  this  perverse  affair  of  Costanza's,  which  may  end 
in  tragedy!" 

"What  affair?"  I  murmured.  "Have  you  heard 
anything?  Tell  me,  I  implore  you." 

"You  were  present  that  day,  too,  Signer,"  she  went 
on,  her  eyes,  fixed  in  contemplation  of  the  Medusa; 
"but  really — one  would  say  it  was  fated." 

"  Do  you  mean  the  day  Lucera  got  his  conge,  Sig- 
nora?  What  had  that  to  do  with  me  ?  I  left  the  castle 
almost  as  soon  as  he  did." 

"  Quite  so.  Your  part  in  the  imbroglio  is  to  me  a 
mystery.  Not  that  I  should  have  chosen  a  Cherubino 
like  the  Marchese  for  that  angelic  creature;  I  never 
liked  the  match.  But  Italian  girls  are  not  expected  to 
refuse  their  father's  choice.  I  suspect  it  was  your  pres- 
ence, Ser  Inglese,  that  put  these  daring  notions  into  the 
child's  head." 

"  Thank  God  if  it  was,"  I  cried  passionately.  "  Do 
you  know  what  happened  afterward?" 

The  actress  eyed  me  with  some  disquietude. 

"  I  left  them  soon  after  the  catastrophe  of  Lucera ; 
have  been  yachting  since  with  some  of  your  grand  Eng- 
lish people.  No,  I  have  heard  nothing.  What  are  you 
keeping  back  ?  Is  Costanza  ill  ?  "  She  peered  into  my 
face  eagerly,  undaunted  by  the  malocchio. 

"  Can  you  be  at  Roccaforte  the  day  after  to-mor- 
row? "  I  asked,  endeavoring  to  keep  down  my  agitation. 

"  If  it  were  a  service  to  Costanza  I  would  give  up 
every  engagement,"  she  answered  in  surprise. 

"  It  will  be.  Cancel  them  all ;  try  to  arrive  at  the 
castle  in  the  afternoon." 


CHAP.  XXI1L]  ASCANIO  THE  PAGE  317 

"  But,  Signer,"  she  exclaimed  impetuously,  "  you  are 
hiding  some  trouble;  I  see  it  in  those  eyes  of  yours, 
and  in  your  quivering  lip.  Do  trust  me — what  is  it?" 

"You  know  nothing — guess  nothing,  Signora?" 

She  was  ignorant,  then,  like  all  the  world,  of  what 
had  befallen  her  friend.  The  secret  was  well  kept,  as 
Carluccio  reasoned  it  would  be. 

Tarquinia  caught  me  by  the  wrist.  "  Tell  me  imme- 
diately. I  will  not  let  you  go  till  I  know  everything. 
Is  the  child  dead  ?  Has  she  run  away  to  the  sepolte 
vive  ?  You  look  the  picture  of  despair,  my  good  Eng- 
lishman." 

"  Were  she  dead,  I  might  be  less  miserable.  No, 
Signora;  she  has  been  seized  and  carried  off  from  her 
father's  house." 

The  actress  fell  back  on  the  cushions. 

"  Madre  Santissima ! "  she  exclaimed,  while  the  tears 
burst  from  her  eyes.  "That  bandit,  Lucera!" 

Yes,  I  saw  it  would  be  so;  Tiberio  had  devised  his 
stratagem  to  catch  the  common  judgment.  No  use  in 
explaining  here  and  now. 

"  If  Lucera's  hand  is  in  it,"  I  answered,  "  he  will  re- 
pent his  daring.  Acknowledge  now  that  your  presence 
may  be  wanted  at  Roccaforte.  On  Thursday  Don 
Camillo  returns  to  his  father's  house ;  he  has  never  been 
admitted  since  1870.  You  can  do  much  to  reconcile 
them." 

"  And  I  will,  that  I  promise  you,"  cried  the  actress 
with  intense  animation  ;  "  but  my  poor  Costanza !  Does 
no  one — is  it  impossible  to  get  on  the  track  of  the  mis- 
creants? " 

"  Not  impossible,  I  hope.  I  am  following  a  thread 
which  may  wind  into  their  very  hearts." 

"  Follow  it,  Signer  mio,  follow  it  to  the  end,  and 
God  be  with  you.  I  won't  keep  you  an  instant  longer. 
On  Thursday  expect  me  at  the  castle." 


3i8  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BooK  IV. 

Tarquinia  rolled  away  in  her  carriage.  I  rejoined 
my  companion. 

"  Now,  Carluccio,  it  is  clear,"  I  said  to  him,  "  that 
Sforza  means  to  get  rid  of  you  all  and  turn  over  a  new 
leaf.  Let  us  see  what  Ascanio  thinks  of  that.  Behind 
us  are  those  two  officers  in  plain  clothes  on  whom  we 
rely  in  extremity — you  understand  me ;  you  know  how 
to  get  round  this  lad." 

"Let  me  alone  for  that,"  replied  the  young  man; 
"  all  I  hope  is  that  we  may  find  him  the  other  side  of 
the  wicket,  waiting  for  his  master,  who,  I  guess,  will  be 
lurking  about  the  Gran  Sasso  with  the  men  he  took 
away,  and  the  lady — poor  thing!  Basta!  we  have  no 
time  to  lose,  Signer." 

He  went  on  before,  to  reconnoiter  as  we  drew  near 
the  Palazzo  Mocenni,  which  was  the  object  of  our 
journey.  The  coast  was  clear;  I  let  Carluccio  ascend 
the  broad  staircase  of  the  huge,  melancholy  mansion 
where  my  first  interview  with  the  "  King  of  the  Ca- 
morra  "  had  taken  place.  What  would  he  discover  in 
those  chambers?  A  wild  imagination  flashed  across 
my  mind  that  perhaps  Costanza  was  hidden  there. 
Such  things  had  been.  Rome  was  more  secret  than 
the  caves  and  shepherds'  huts  of  the  Gran  Sasso.  But 
who  could  fathom  Tiberio's  designs?  All  I  knew  was 
that  the  venomous  worm  would  be  undergoing  some 
fresh  transformation. 

I  stole  noiselessly  up  the  second  flight  of  stairs  when 
Carluccio  gave  a  quiet  pull  at  the  bell.  There  was  a 
click  as  of  the  little  wicket  opening ;  a  cry  of  joyful  sur- 
prise which  I  knew  to  be  Ascanio's;  a  colloquy  in 
smothered  tones;  while  I  gained  the  remaining  steps 
with  a  wolf's  tread,  and  in  a  few  seconds  should  be  at 
the  door.  Then  I  heard  bolts  unfastening,  and  a  key 
turning ;  Carluccio  was  inside  the  fortress.  Ah,  a  second 
cry,  unlike  the  first !  — a  short,  sharp  struggle,  and  my 


CHAP.  XXIIL]  ASCANIO  THE  PAGE  319 

bandit  called  to  me,  "  Come  up,  Signor ;  don't  be  afraid ; 
I  have  got  him  safe." 

A  violent  outburst  of  weeping  and  sobbing  broke  on 
the  air.  "  Ah,  traditore!  figlio  del  diavolo!"  and  such- 
like imprecations  I  caught  in  the  page's  high,  trembling 
voice,  full  of  grief  and  terror.  The  gendarmes  ap- 
peared below  me  on  the  stairs. 

"  Shall  we  come  up  ?  "  they  motioned.  And  I,  "  Not 
yet.  Be  in  readiness  when  I  call." 

They  waited  respectfully.  I  passed  in,  and  beheld 
Ascanio,  struggling  no  longer,  but  deadly  pale,  half 
seated,  half  lying  on  the  velvet  couch,  held  in  a  firm 
grip  by  Carluccio.  The  latter  was  smiling,  whispering 
words  of  comfort,  doing  all  he  could  to  reassure  the 
saucy  page,  but  tightening  his  hold  whenever  Ascanio 
tried  to  get  loose.  On  seeing  me  the  fair-faced  boy 
shuddered  and  went  off  into  a  swoon. 

"  He  thinks  you  the  devil  in  person,  God  forgive 
me!"  said  Carluccio.  "What  a  little  viper  it  is." 

I  saw  in  his  hands  the  marks  of  teeth. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  the  lad  bit  you  ?  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  Altro ! "  said  my  smiling  Apollo,  "  bit  like  a  weasel 
— look  here — never  mind.  Now,  if  you  would  have 
the  goodness,  Signor — water;  we  must  revive  him." 

I  brought  some  from  Tiberio's  dressing-room,  which 
Carlo  dabbled  on  the  lad's  pale  forehead  and  golden 
locks  with  great  tenderness.  Meanwhile,  I  turned  the 
key  in  the  door,  went  through  the  rooms,  and  satisfied 
myself  that  they  were  empty.  No  Costanza  there! 
Things  were  in  order,  as  if  they  had  not  lately  been 
disturbed.  Should  we  find  evidences  of  guilt  under- 
neath all  this  luxury — behind  these  pictures  and  bro- 
cades, or  in  the  caskets  of  tessellated  woods  that  served, 
perhaps,  as  repositories  of  Tiberio's  correspondence? 
I  was  master  now  within  these  mysterious  apartments ; 
I  would  not  quit  them  until  I  had  explored  their  secrets. 


320  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

Ascanio  was  coming  round  feebly,  when  I  stood  by 
the  couch  again.  His  eyes  gleamed,  and  he  tried  to 
push  away  Carlo's  hand  which  was  still  wetting  his  lips 
with  the  water.  "  Ah,  Inglese — creeping  villain ! "  he 
muttered,  "  what  do  you  do  here  ?  Wait  till  my  master 
catches  you."  He  sat  up,  and  looked  around  helplessly, 
and  cried  as  I  never  saw  any  one  cry  before,  with  an 
agonized  pain,  a  sense  of  bewilderment  and  defeat,  that 
went  to  my  heart.  I  dared  not  attempt  to  soothe  him. 

"  You  should  never  have  got  in,  if  this  damned  Car- 
luccio  had  not  told  me  lies,"  he  said,  half  choking. 
"Where  is  your  note  from  my  master?  And  ah,  Dio 
mio — where  is  he?  I  have  not  seen  him,  not  heard 
from  him — no,  not  so  much  as  one  syllable,  these  three 
weeks.  It  was  because  you  spoke  with  his  name  on 
your  lips — vile  carrion — that  I  opened  the  door  to 
you.  Give  me  his  letter  then!" 

Carluccio  and  I  exchanged  glances.  Here  was  con- 
firmation strong  that  Tiberio  had  mapped  out  for  all  his 
followers  a  scheme  of  death  or  capture.  He  was  de- 
serting this  unhappy  lad  as  well  as  the  rest. 

"Will  you  promise  to  keep  quiet,"  said  Carluccio, 
"until  you  have  read  it?  There,  take  this  handker- 
chief and  wipe  your  eyes,  you  little  fool.  As  if  I  was 
the  man  to  hurt  Ascanio !  Did  I  ever  hurt  you  before, 
somarello?" 

"  No,  but  you  are  hurting  me  now,"  moaned  the 
page.  "  I  will  be  quiet,  only  let  me  see  my  master's 
letter — my  dear  master,  in  spite  of  all!" 

"  Give  it  to  him,  Signer,"  said  Carluccio — "  ah,  yes, 
a  dear  master;  you  will  see." 

"  This  is  not  the  Count's  handwriting,"  was  his  ex- 
clamation, when  his  eye  fell  on  the  papers  I  held  out 
to  him.  "  Get  away  with  you,  Englishman ;  you  are 
so  stupid  you  don't  even  know  how  to  tell  lies!" 

"I  did  not  say  it  was  his  handwriting,  Ascanio,"  said 


CHAP.  XXIII.]  ASCANIO  THE  PAGE  321 

I,  with  a  certain  accent  which  made  him  attentive.  "  I 
am  grieved,  my  dear  lad — more  than  you  will  ever 
know,  perhaps — at  the  pain  I  must  give  you  " — for  his 
dreadful  crying  was  still  in  my  ears  like  that  of  a  for- 
saken child — "  but  these  are  your  master's  own  words, 
faithfully  copied.  Read  them  to  the  end." 

He  did  so,  not  now  thinking  to  dart  away  from  the 
couch,  or  to  move  at  all,  but  with  suspended  breath 
and  a  face  of  dismay  and  horror.  We  stood  by,  utter- 
ing no  word.  When  he  came  to  Carluccio's  name,  he 
just  looked  up  at  him,  and  the  tears  glistened  on  his 
eyelashes.  Then  he  went  slowly  down  the  paper,  gazed 
long  at  the  official  seal,  as  if  he  were  examining  it; 
traveled  up  to  his  own  name  once  more,  and  recited 
the  account  of  himself  in  a  tender  undertone.  "  Si,  si, 
that  is  me,"  he  said;  "'Ascanio,  a  boy  of  fifteen,  slight, 
very  fair,  coquettish  in  his  dress,  yellow  curls,  and  large 
violet  eyes;  seems  merely  a  pretty  child;  but  full  of 
stratagems;  engaged  in  many  robberies.'  Is  that  my 
thanks,  Master?" 

"Don't  cry  so;  have  courage;  recognize  your 
friends,"  I  said,  touching  his  hand.  But  he  pulled  it 
violently  from  me.  "  I  knew  something  would  hap- 
pen," he  said,  looking  on  the  carpet,  and  seeming  to 
have  in  his  mouth  a  nauseous  draught,  "  when  you 
spoke  those  horrible  words  to  me  at  the  Devil's  Boulder. 
You  prophesied  that  I  should  lose  my  master;  now  I 
have  lost  him.  Not  by  my  fault — Madonna! — if  he 
had  sent  me  to  die,  what  matter?  But  to  betray  his 
own  Ascanio!"  He  broke  down  again. 

We  let  him  take  his  fill  of  weeping;  it  was  the  only 
way.  But  Carluccio  held  his  hand,  and  after  a  while 
that  human  touch  affected  him  to  more  kindly  emo- 
tions. "  You  were  to  die  along  with  us,"  he  exclaimed, 
springing  up  from  the  sofa,  "  and  you  came  in  order  to 

save  me,  and  I  have  not  thanked  you.     Thanks  now, 
21 


322  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

fratel  mio,"  and  with  that  he  took  the  young  man  round 
the  neck. 

"  Could  you  be  so  mad  as  to  think  I  would  betray 
you,  Ascanio?"  said  the  other,  holding  the  lad  in  his 
arms ;  "  were  n't  we  always  the  best  of  friends  ?  Now 
you  know  the  Count.  But  for  this  English  Signor  we 
should  be  handed  over — not  one  spared  of  us  all — to 
the  police.  Don't  you  think  he  deserves  your  grati- 
tude as  much  as  I  do?" 

Ascanio  glanced  at  me  sidewise.  "  Let  him  order 
and  I  will  obey,"  he  said  resignedly.  "  The  Count  is 
gone" — puffing  him  away  with  disdainful  gesture,  but 
breaking  into  sobs  again.  "  Do  you  think  to  kill  him, 
Ser  Inglese?  You  have  the  face  of  one  that  would." 

"  Kill,  and  eat  him  afterward,"  exclaimed  Carluccio, 
laughing.  "  Per  Bacco,  you  have  leave  from  all  Santa 
Fiora's  men;  they  would  not  refuse  a  collop  of  the  cruel 
devil.  Ascanio,  yes — he  shall  yield  up  his  life  or  the 
lady  ;  by  preference,  both." 

"  How,  what  lady?  "  inquired  the  page,  still  conning 
the  murderous  lesson  which  he  held  at  arm's  length. 
" '  A  boy  more  like  a  child,' "  he  repeated  to  himself, 
"  '  full  of  wiles  and  stratagems ! '  Am  I  so  ?  He  shall 
taste  some  of  them.  What  lady  must  he  give  back, 
Carluccio?  " 

"  Why,  the  lady  of  Roccaforte — who  else  ?  Donna 
Costanza,  you  know." 

I  saw  a  trembling  take  hold  of  the  slender  frame, 
shaking  Ascanio  from  head  to  foot. 

"Costanza!  Impossible!  She  was  for  the  Mar- 
chese.  I  took  the  messages  between  him  and  Santa 
Fiora ;  I  was  there  when  they  met  in  the  wood  this  side 
of  Velletri." 

"  All  that  might  be,"  returned  his  comrade  ;  "  never- 
theless, your  Lucera  is  a  prisoner  at  Le  Pergole,  if  he 
has  not  paid  his  ransom;  and  his  promessa  sposa — 


CHAP.  XXIIL]  ASCANIO  THE  PAGE  323 

though  she  did  not  promise — may  as  well  marry  our 
noble  Count,  for  he  has  kept  her  day  and  night  in  the 
mountains.  He  loves  and  she  must  love ;  it's  the  rule 
of  the  game,"  concluded  the  young  man,  airily. 

I  was  struck  with  this  naive  repetition  of  Dante's  ter- 
rible verse — 


which  seemed  to  cast  the  shadow  of  death  or  infamy 
over  the  one  woman  I  worshiped  out  of  all  the  world. 
But  on  Ascanio  the  words  wrought  like  madness.  He 
neither  sobbed  nor  wept  any  more. 

"  Now  I  see  it  all,"  he  said,  and  a  grave  expression 
darkened  the  young  face.  "  We  were  the  Count's 
body-servants  to  snatch  a  bride  for  him — they  did  that 
in  the  old  times,  Carluccio,  I  have  read — and  when  she 
was  safe  in  his  arms  we  might  go  hang  or  drown  our- 
selves. More,  he  would  get  a  price  for  us — so  much  a 
head.  Don't  you  believe,  Signor,"  turning  at  last  and 
confronting  me,  "  that  Don  Camillo  was  willing  to  pay 
it?  I  wonder  how  much  I  went  for,  a  mere  lad  of 
fifteen." 

"  Well  then,  Ascanio,"  I  said,  "  if  you  want  to  frus- 
trate this  wedding,  give  us  all  the  information  you 
possess.  Did  Sforza  leave  any  papers  that  would 
compromise  him?" 

Hesitation  on  the  lad's  countenance — for  which  I  gave 
him  credit,  though  it  must  be  vanquished.  He  stood 
irresolute ;  glanced  at  the  document  in  his  hand ;  flung 
it  away,  and  said,  "  Come,  I  will  show  you." 

We  followed  him  into  the  dining-room.  Books  on 
the  shelves  not  a  few;  heaps  of  journals  on  the  ground; 
no  sign  of  papers.  "  You  must  break  open  this  cup- 
board," said  the  boy,  "  unless  Carluccio  knows  the  trick 
of  it." 


324  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

"Not  I,"  answered  the  other;  "I  am  no  house- 
breaker." 

"  Then  it  will  be  one  of  my  stratagems  to  open  it," 
said  Ascanio,  smiling  and  shivering ;  "  observe,  I  do 
thus  with  a  bit  of  steel  which  some  one  gave  me  who 
was  a  master  in  opening  locks.  Now,  Signer,  take  out 
what  you  find." 

A  heavy  iron  door  had  swung  noiselessly  on  its  hinges, 
revealing  piles  of  square  paper,  which  I  began  to  pull 
out  eagerly. 

"  Better  take  them  in  order,"  said  the  boy,  "  those 
at  the  top  first." 

I  did  so,  and  laid  them  carefully  down  as  they  came 
out.  When  I  had  extracted  several  in  this  way,  "  Open 
them  now,"  he  continued. 

"  Yes,  certainly,  I  open  them.  But,  Ascanio,  look 
inside,"  I  said  with  some  mortification  ;  "  they  are  every 
one  blank.  Absolute  white  paper!  What  use  is  that 
to  us?" 

"  And  if  you  take  them  all  out,"  he  answered,  "  you 
will  find  only  white  paper.  How  shall  you  proceed 
now?  There  are  no  other  documents  in  these  rooms." 

I  snatched  up  one  of  the  books  and  held  it  to  the 
light.  Transparent  leaves  with  an  Italian  water-mark ! 
"  You  are  certain  the  Count  left  only  such  books  as 
these?" 

He  assented  silently. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  him  write  in  them?  " 

Again  a  lingering  hesitation ;  then  his  voice  came  in  a 
whisper,  "  If  I  must  I  must.  Signor,  he  wrote  in  them 
almost  every  day." 

"  Ah,  I  thought  so,  invisible  ink.  Bring  a  candle, 
Ascanio — or  stay,  can  you  light  that  stove?" 

"  No  good  if  I  were  to  light  it,"  he  answered ;  "  I 
know  all  about  lemon-juice  and  those  kinds.  This  is 
different:  fire  will  not  bring  it  out." 


CHAP.  XXIII.]  ASCANIO  THE  PAGE  325 

"  What  will,  then  ?  Have  you  a  stratagem  for  this  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  Wait  till  I  come  back,"  he  said,  and  was  running 
out  of  the  room,  but  Carluccio  put  his  hand  on  the 
prisoner's  arm. 

"  Not  alone,"  he  said,  "  my  dear  little  captive.  I  am 
your  jailer ;  I  can't  lose  sight  of  you." 

Ascanio  struck  him  pettishly.  "  Va  bene,  come 
then,"  he  cried,  adding  in  his  boyish  manner,  "  Did  I 
hurt  your  hand  when  my  teeth  went  into  it?  Let  me 
see,"  taking  hold  of  it  and  putting  it  to  his  lips. 

They  walked  off  like  the  two  Dromios,  while  I  consid- 
ered the  cryptic  pages  that  might  unveil  Tiberio  at  last. 
Certainly  these  did  send  up  a  faint  perceptible  odor  of 
some  chemical  preparation.  But  I  was  almost  an  igno- 
ramus on  the  subject  of  sympathetic  inks;  unless  the 
lad's  boast  had  truth  in  it,  we  must  lose  hours  in  con- 
veying these  documents  to  Prince  Sorelli's  and  submit- 
ting them  to  experts.  No,  here  is  Ascanio,  bearing 
with  him  a  dark  solution  in  a  Florence  flask. 

"You  will  let  me  try  my  hand  first,"  he  said;  "I 
have  n't  got  much  of  this.  We  had  better  apply  it  to 
the  last  notes  I  saw  him  put  down — these,  I  know  they 
are."  He  took  up  a  volume  as  he  spoke,  turned  the 
pages  out  before  him,  and  commenced  brushing  them 
with  the  liquid.  After  an  interval,  fragments  of  color 
became  visible.  They  developed  into  lines  and  sec- 
tions ;  but  conceive  my  chagrin  on  beholding,  not 
words  in  an  unknown  language,  but  signs  as  unintel- 
ligible to  me  as  hieroglyphics! 

"It  is  all  in  cipher!"  I  exclaimed,  turning  from  the 
queer-looking  page  ;  "  I  am  as  wise  as  before." 

"  But  I  am  a  little  wiser,"  cried  Carluccio,  to  my 
relief  and  astonishment.  "  I  know  some  of  the  words. 
It  is  the  cipher  of  the  Camorra.  I  was  never  any  great 
things  at  writing  in  it,  but  I  can  read  it." 


326  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

"  Then,  for  Heaven's  sake,  spell  it  out  for  me,"  I  re- 
plied. "  The  night  will  be  gone  and  nothing  done. 
Ascanio,  get  lights,  find  some  bread  and  wine,  and  let 
us  all  three  run  down  this  trail,  now  we  are  upon  it." 

A  ring  at  the  bell  made  us  start  My  companion 
and  I  were  armed  with  revolvers;  we  went,  therefore, 
to  the  door,  but  stood  on  one  side  while  Ascanio 
opened  the  wicket.  I  caught  the  sound  of  inquiries. 

"  It  is  all  right,"  I  explained  to  the  lad ;  "  open  with- 
out fear.  These  are  friends,  sent  by  Don  Camillo." 

Our  gendarmes,  in  fact,  uneasy  at  the  long  stay  we 
were  making,  had  resolved  to  see  what  was  keeping  us. 
I  told  them  briefly,  and  they  took  up  their  quarters  in 
the  anteroom,  while  we,  with  lamps  lit  and  food  on  the 
table,  pursued  our  researches  in  cryptography.  Had 
Tiberio  entered  any  time  during  the  next  seven  hours, 
the  sight  would  have  astonished  him ;  we  looked  more 
like  clerks  in  an  office  sumptuously  fitted  up,  than  three 
detectives  searching  into  a  great  criminal  enterprise. 

It  was  no  holiday  task.  "  How  did  you  come  by 
that  solution,  Ascanio?"  I  inquired  of  the  lad,  whose 
eyes  were  now  closing  with  fatigue  and  the  weariness 
that  follows  upon  violent  emotions.  "  Is  there  more 
of  it?" 

"  Only  this  much,"  he  said,  holding  up  the  flask, 
which  was  nearly  exhausted.  "  The  Count  left  it  with 
me,  so  that  in  case  he  wrote  I  should  have  the  means 
of  reading  his  letters.  I  have  n't  the  ghost  of  an  idea 
what  it  is,  or  where  you  can  get  a  fresh  supply.  And 
oh,  I  am  dead  beat,"  yawning  and  falling  with  his  head 
on  the  table,  where  the  bright  yellow  curls  went  stream- 
ing over  these  pages  that  we  were  putting  to  the  ques- 
tion. I  spoke  to  Carluccio. 

"  Take  the  lad  and  lay  him  on  Sforza's  bed  in  the  next 
room.  He  is  quite  broken  with  this  day's  work.  We 
shall  have  to  do  the  best  we  can  while  he  sleeps." 


CHAP.  XXIII.]  ASCANIO  THE   PAGE  327 

"  Broken? — no  wonder,"  said  Carlo,  lifting  his  young 
comrade  tenderly ;  "  all  the  same,  better  that  than 
being  shot  or  sent  to  the  Isola  del  Giglio.  Come,  you 
sleepyhead.  Cospetto!  he  is  as  light  as  a  feather." 

With  these  words,  he  carried  off  his  slumbering  bur- 
den and  disappeared  into  Tiberio's  chamber.  On  com- 
ing back,  he  seemed  thoughtful.  "  You  would  take 
that  boy  for  one  of  heaven's  seraphim,"  he  remarked 
to  me,  "  now  when  he  is  asleep.  And  awake,  no  urchin 
that  ever  played  tricks  in  church  is  more  mischievous. 
But  faithful — as  a  thief  to  your  pocket.  Cosa  stupenda, 
is  n't  it,  Signer?" 

"  Let  us  get  on,  for  God's  sake.  What  do  these  dice 
signify  with  an  arrow  between  them?" 

"  Oh,  scusi,  those  are  false  dice !  When  we  play  in 
a  locanda  with  a  stranger,  it  is  one  way  of  starting  a 
quarrel  and  getting  the  man  outside,  on  pretense  of  a 
duello.  Then  we  capture  him  easily." 

"  And  this  bunch  of  grapes?  " 

The  youth  glanced  along  the  line.  "  That  was  the  fat 
old  beccafico  at  the  Tor  de'  Schiavi,"  he  said  carelessly. 
"  The  rose  underneath  means  that  we  did  very  well 
in  his  case.  And  so  Livorno  did ;  for  he  had  most  of 
the  cash.  You  remember  seeing  it  paid  out  by  Santa 
Fiora  in  the  pigeon-house." 

From  these  instances  it  may  be  gathered  how  slow 
and  unsatisfactory  a  process  we  went  through,  in  our 
attempt  at  piecing  out  Tiberio's  commentaries.  The 
chemical  solution  was  failing  us.  Large  tracts  of  white 
though  not  virgin  pages  irritated  our  curiosity ;  sen- 
tences stared  us  in  the  face  of  which  we  could  not  make 
head  or  tail;  even  where  several  consecutive  passages 
lay  in  our  path,  it  was  a  chance  whether  my  brigand 
would  be  master  of  the  jargon  in  which  they  were  com- 
posed, and  I,  as  became  an  Oxford  scholar,  did  not 
know  one  of  these  hideous  characters.  They  revolted 


328  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

me  like  a  visible  disease,  a  leprosy  on  the  innocent 
paper.  Nevertheless  in  them  was  hidden  the  evidence 
that  we  came  to  seek.  Tiberio  had  kept,  in  single  or 
double  entry,  the  record  of  his  dealings  with  the  Ca- 
morra;  but  for  himself  alone,  in  phrases  which  no  one 
else  could  fully  decipher;  a  great  part  we  must  leave 
until  experts  had  taken  it  in  hand,  to  make  what  they 
might  of  it. 

Two  or  three  times  my  companion,  reading  over  my 
shoulder  aloud,  as  the  signs  became  visible,  dropped  his 
voice,  stammered,  and  pulled  up  like  a  terrified  horse 
shying  at  some  phantom  that  rose  before  him. 

"  What  ails  you  now,  Carluccio  ?  "  I  asked. 

He  replied  in  a  whisper,  but  not  until  he  had  satis- 
fied himself  that  the  gendarmes  were  out  of  hearing. 
"  Comrades  that  have  disappeared,"  he  said  in  my  ear; 
"  I  bknew  that  one  and  the  other.  You  don't  under- 
stand the  letters  he  has  put  after  their  names.  No; 
but  I  do.  They  were  finished  by  picchiotti — knifed  to 
death.  Livorno  prays  for  them,  see — Requiescat  to 
each.  The  murdering  hound!" 

So  much  was  certain.  More  important  still  those 
fragmentary  pages  appeared  to  be  which  we  had  first 
lighted  upon ;  and  now  that  our  magic  liquor  was 
squeezed  out  to  the  last  drop,  I  began  to  range  the 
copies  we  had  taken  in  such  order  as  I  could,  and  to 
extract  their  significance.  Ascanio  slumbered  on ; 
Carluccio  threw  himself  on  a  sofa  and  fell  dead  asleep. 
From  time  to  time  one  of  the  gendarmes  looked  in,  by 
way  of  assuring  himself  we  had  none  of  us  flown 
through  the  windows.  And  what,  in  this  solitary  ses- 
sion, did  I  read? 

Some  curious  disclosures  of  vanity  and  ambition. 
Among  the  leaves  there  was  a  pedigree,  made  out  with 
extreme  care,  in  ordinary  speech,  wherein  Tiberio 
Sforza,  by  the  father's  side  descended  from  the  Royal 


CHAP.  XXIII.]  ASCANIO  THE  PAGE  329 

House  of ,  on  the  mother's  traced  himself  through 

twelve  generations  to  the  Baglioni,  Lords  of  Perugia. 
How  much  was  genuine,  how  much  feigned?  Impos- 
sible to  say;  but  he  had  given  names,  marriages,  and 
dates  with  an  exactitude  worthy  of  the  College  of 
Arms,  and  perhaps  as  well  founded. 

Then  followed,  but  in  a  doubtful  and  broken  series,  a 
correspondence,  made  up  of  letters  originally  separate, 
which  had  been  stitched  into  volumes,  written  in  a  great 
variety  of  hands,  but  all  with  the  same  sympathetic 
ink,  and  signed  with  names  purely  fantastical.  Who 
the  signatories  were,  Carluccio  had  no  means  of  inform- 
ing me;  they  belonged  to  groups  with  which  Santa 
Fiora  did  not  stand  in  alliance ;  either  what  is  known  as 
the  alta  Camorra,  or  else — and  this  seemed  the  more 
probable; — political  and  military  associations.  The  lan- 
guage, I  thought,  was  that  of  soldiers,  often  of  edu- 
cated men ;  the  allusions  thrown  out,  the  hopes 
expressed,  and  some  of  the  measures  indicated  bore  a 
resemblance  not  to  be  mistaken,  and  strengthened  by 
my  knowledge  of  similar  writings,  to  the  literature 
which,  half  a  century  earlier,  had  proceeded  from  the 
Carbonari  or  the  Mazzinians.  A  fresh  movement  had 
sprung  up,  as  I  heard  Sforza  explaining  in  his  conver- 
sation with  Gaetano,  of  which  the  Army  was  the  chief 
center  and  himself  among  the  leaders.  What  could  be 
its  design  ?  An  Italian  republic — a  military  pronuncia- 
mento?  In  any  case,  the  new  order  of  things  was  to 
be  one  which  would  give  him  wealth  and  power. 
It  might  even  be  conjectured,  from  hints  dropped  by 
more  than  one  correspondent,  that  the  rising  would  not 
tarry  long.  Discontent  was  growing  from  Milan  to 
Palermo ;  the  Socialist  newspapers  talked  open  rebel- 
lion ;  if  barricades  were  thrown  up  and  one  single  regi- 
ment fraternized  with  the  people,  there  was  an  end  of 
the  present  rule — King  and  Parliament  would  be  swept 


330  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BooK  IV. 

away.  It  struck  me,  as  I  went  on  reading,  that  the  dis- 
aster in  Abyssinia,  which  had  overturned  Scanza,  might, 
by  coming  before  these  conspirators  were  prepared, 
have  saved  the  Monarchy.  But,  in  all  this,  I  was  su- 
premely thankful  not  to  meet  with  the  signature  of 
Gaetano.  I  hoped  it  was  nowhere  among  the  unde- 
ciphered  documents;  it  was  riot  in  those  I  had  gone 
through. 

The  sun  looked  in  at  eastern  windows  while  I 
went  on  studying.  One  of  our  gendarmes  had  left; 
another  taken  his  post.  I  began  to  realize  that  we 
three  were  prisoners.  What  did  it  signify?  These 
papers  with  my  transcription  of  their  meaning  must  be 
handed  over  to  Don  Camillo.  To  him  they  were  at 
once  despatched  by  a  messenger  in  waiting. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AMONG   THE   VINEYARDS 

ALL  now  hung  on  the  movements  of  Prince  Sorelli. 
jfA.  How  many  hours  would  this  wretched  Ministry 
take  to  be  cleared  out  of  the  way  ?  Impatient  and  full 
of  forebodings,  I  waited  in  the  Palazzo  Mocenni  with  a 
heart  almost  as  sad  as  Ugolino's,  when  he  heard  the 
bolts  drawn  at  the  gate  of  the  Tower  of  Famine — every 
moment  was  lessening  the  chance  of  freedom  and  safety 
for  Costanza.  Before  eight  o'clock  we  were  up  and 
about  in  Tiberio's  rooms,  gathered  round  his  breakfast- 
table,  uninvited  guests.  Ascanio,  serving  me  instead 
of  his  master,  smiled  with  a  curious  expression  of  pain, 
as  he  recalled  the  last  morning  I  had  eaten  and  drunk 
there.  But  the  rites  of  hospitality,  the  sacred  bread 
and  salt  which  I  had  tasted,  must  yield  to  something 
more  sacred  still.  We  were  paying  treason  in  its  own 
coin.  My  other  young  brigand  enjoyed  himself  with 
trembling.  "  What  if  he  were  to  leap  in  upon  us  now !  " 
he  said  more  than  once,  glancing  toward  the  door. 

"  He  would  be  welcome,"  I  answered.  "  Is  it  not 
extraordinary,  Ascanio,  that  he  leaves  you  all  this  while 
without  orders?"  The  page  was  about  to  reply,  when 
we  heard  a  peculiar  ring.  Carluccio  turned  white  and 
ran  to  hide  himself  behind  a  tall  desk,  drawing  his  re- 
volver at  the  same  time;  and  Ascanio,  like  a  dog  to 
which  its  owner  whistles,  sat  up,  his  ears  erect,  all  at- 


332  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

tention.  "Who  is  there?"  I  asked,  holding  him  by 
both  shoulders,  lest  he  should  rush  out  suddenly  and 
discover  us.  "You  must  n't  be  afraid;  the  gendarmes 
are  there ;  the  bolt  is  on  the  door." 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  he  gasped ;  "  yet  if  it  is  the  Count 
—  O  Dio! — he  will  make  his  way  in.  We  shall  be 
under  his  feet  in  an  instant." 

"  Never,  while  I  am  alive,"  I  said.  "  Now  go,  As- 
canio ;  be  careful ;  but  first  I  say  a  word  to  the  soldiers." 

Until  the  wicket  should  be  opened,  it  was  impossible 
for  any  one  outside  to  know  what  was  going  on  in 
these  chambers.  I  walked  therefore  into  the  vestibule, 
and  cautioned  my  gendarmes  that  whoever  came  in 
they  should  immediately  pinion  him ;  but  that,  first, 
the  lad  who  was  with  us  would  hold  a  parley.  They 
quite  understood,  drew  on  each  side  into  the  heavy 
curtains,  and  allowed  Ascanio  to  undo  the  wicket.  I 
watched  him  from  inside  the  saloon.  His  face,  which 
was  swollen  with  weeping,  told  me  instantly  that  the 
visitor  was  not  Tiberio  Sforza.  "  Why  did  you  give 
the  master's  ring?"  he  asked  angrily  of  the  newcomer. 

We  heard  a  quavering  voice  reply,  "  Because  I  come 
from  him."  At  that  Carlo  and  I  pricked  up  our  ears. 
"That  is  Luigi's  voice,"  said  my  companion,  in  a 
whisper. 

"Where  is  he  then?"  inquired  Ascanio.  But  the 
other — Luigi,  if  it  was  he — laughed  with  a  foolish  kind 
of  snigger,  and  said,  "  How  should  I  know?  He  sent 
you  this.  Take  it.  I  am  in  a  desperate  hurry." 

Through  the  bars  of  the  little  wicket  he  pushed  a 
letter,  and  was  going  away,  when  I  made  a  sign  to  the 
gendarmes.  "Open,"  said, one  of  them  to  the  page. 
He  obeyed  at  once ;  and  no  sooner  did  the  messenger 
come  in  than  he  was  pounced  upon.  He  uttered  a 
feeble  cry.  "  Gabbato,  I  'm  caged,"  he  whimpered. 
"  Signori,  don't  hurt  me." 


CHAP.  XXIV.]        AMONG  THE  VINEYARDS  333 

"  We  are  not  going  to  hurt  you,  bestia  del  diavolo," 
cried  Carluccio,  appearing  from  the  other  room. 
"  Don't  be  afraid ;  you  look  as  if  your  heart  were 
in  your  boots."  Luigi  grasped  his  hand  feverishly. 
"But,  Carlo  mio,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  here!  Ahi, 
what  have  I  done  to  fall  into  this  trap?  I  have  a 
sfinimento  di  cuore,  in  truth.  Wine,  for  Heaven's 
sake ! " 

His  eyes  and  face  were  working  like  some  machine 
that  had  gone  out  of  its  mind,  all  in  disorder.  "  Faith, 
yes,  he  will  be  sick,"  observed  Carlo,  amused  at  his  old 
comrade's  tremors.  "  Ascanio,  bring  some  of  the 
Count's  wine  and  pour  it  down  Luigi's  throat.  Be 
quick,  too ;  the  poverino  will  want  an  undertaker  if 
you  don't  make  haste." 

The  wine  was  brought  and  swallowed  in  great  gulps 
by  Luigi,  still  shaking  from  head  to  foot  with  his  ague, 
and  looking  from  one  gendarme  to  the  other,  "  out  of 
the  tail  of  his  eye,"  as  the  Italians  have  it.  "  Is  the 
maestro  caught?"  he  whispered  to  Ascanio.  "You 
have  been  crying  like  the  sky  in  April :  so  he  's  in  the 
cage,  too." 

"  Mind  your  own  chestnuts,  or  they  '11  get  burned," 
said  Carlo.  "  Feeling  better  now  ?  Very  well.  What 
was  your  desperate  hurry  about?  " 

The  brigand  closed  his  eyes  and  seemed  to  be  reflect- 
ing. Then  he  opened  them  wide,  smiled  with  imbecile 
good  nature  on  us  all,  and  turned  again  to  Carluccio, 
whose  part  in  this  dialogue,  we  felt,  had  better  be  left 
to  him.  "  You  've  grown  a  fine  beard,  Carlo  mio," 
said  the  other  at  last — meaning  in  his  jargon  that  our 
friend  was  playing  the  birro,  or  policeman — "  but,  it  's 
true?  I  am  served?" 

"  Served  you  are,"  said  Carlo,  "  and  you  '11  get  1'  in- 
canto — penal  servitude — too,  if  you  don't  spit  it  all  out. 
These  gentlemen  are  not  scarrafoni — municipal  guards; 


334  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

they  come   from   headquarters,  from   the   Ministry   of 
Justice.     Ecco!" 

"  But,  diamine,  I  was  to  go  there  with  another  paper ; 
to  the  Prince  Sorelli.  Gesu  mio,  would  it  be  a  trap- 
pola?  Read;  here  is  the  cursed  vine-leaf!"  saying 
which,  he  stooped  and  drew  a  letter  from  inside  his 
leggings,  with  a  fierce  gesture  handing  it  to  me.  There 
was  no  address  on  the  soiled  envelop. 

"For  Don  Camillo  Sorelli?"  I  said.  "Not  for  the 
Minister  Scanza?" 

"  Eh,  no !  the  Saracen,  no !  For  the  Roman,  without 
doubt.  Livorno  sent  me  once  before.  But  now,  it 
would  be  a  trap?  Is  he  the  devil  under  the  holy 
water?"  alluding  to  a  figure  often  seen  in  Italian 
churches,  of  a  demon  supporting  the  lustral  vase  and 
endeavoring  to  escape  from  his  burden.  This  feeble- 
minded Luigi  had  hit  upon  the  truth.  Tiberio  was 
intent  on  getting  clear  of  the  law ;  who  could  tell 
whether  inside  this  dirty  epistle  the  final  arrangements 
might  not  be  contained  ? 

"  He  is  a  legion  of  devils,"  I  answered,  while  these 
reflections  passed  through  my  brain.  "  However,  you 
come  promptly,  just  as  you  are  wanted.  We  were  all 
setting  off  to  the  Via  Venti  Settembre.  First,  Ascanio, 
open  and  read  that  communication  you  have  been  hold- 
ing these  ten  minutes.  What  does  it  say?  " 

Carluccio  glanced  at  it  over  the  lad's  shoulder,  put- 
ting his  arm  round  Ascanio's  neck  as  he  did  so.  "  It  is 
written  in  pencil,"  he  said  aloud;  "  sign  of  great  hurry. 
Ah,  ah!  Livorno,  would  you?  Signor,  listen:  I  tell 
it  you  in  good  Italian ;  for  it  gives  us  commands  in  our 
jargon.  'Ascanio,  yes,  and  Carluccio — eh,  poor  boys, 
you  are  both  under  pain  of  the  sfranzumma — the  razor" 
— he  made  a  sign  of  mutilation  under  the  ear — " '  to 
join  Santa  Fiora  at  Le  Pergole  by  Friday  morning. 
Ascanio  locks  up  the  place  here,  and  leaves  the  keys  at 
— well,  where  he  has  left  them  on  other  occasions ;  and 


CHAP.  XXIV.]        AMONG  THE  VINEYARDS  335 

so  with  good  wishes,  the  Lord  have  you  in  his  holy 
keeping!'  What  did  I  say,  Ascanio?  Treason,  black 
as  the  devil's  hide !  We  are  all  to  lie  on  the  same  fry- 
ing-pan!" 

The  younger  lad  uttered  not  a  syllable. 

"Friday  morning?"  I  said  to  Carlo.  "And  to-day 
is  Wednesday.  You  would  have  to  start  how  soon? 
Where  is  this  house,  Le  Pergole?  " 

He  described  the  situation — in  a  hill-country  toward 
Arpino.  "  We  should  start  no  later  than  this  evening," 
he  went  on,  "  going  by  rail  a  part  of  the  way,  riding  or 
walking  the  rest.  We  never  go  anywhere  straight, 
you  know,"  displaying  his  teeth  in  a  frank  smile. 

"  Except  to  Hades,"  I  answered,  smiling  in  turn. 
"  We  shall  have  to  steal  a  march  on  your  General. 
You  and  I  and  Ascanio  will  be  there  this  night.  But 
first  to  Don  Camillo's ! " 

The  three  brigands  cried  out  with  one  voice,  "  Would 
you  thrust  your  head  into  the  wolf's  mouth,  Signore?" 
They  were  appalled;  Tiberio — not  the  Minister — was 
the  wild  beast  they  dreaded.  "  If  he  should  be  there 
we  are  lost,"  said  Carluccio — "polished  off — buried!" 

"  And  Donna  Costanza  would  be  saved ! "  I  told  them. 
"  Come,  to  the  Prince." 

I  never  saw  less  token  of  chivalry  than  on  these 
faces  when  I  mentioned  Costanza's  name.  My  young 
Apollo  shrugged  his  shoulders  indifferently ;  his  com- 
panion stared  at  the  ceiling;  Ascanio  seemed  lost  in 
his  own  thoughts.  A  strong  feeling  of  sickness  passed 
over  me.  For  the  moment  I  detested  even  Carluccio. 

While  we  talked,  the  bell  sounded  again.  A  cautious 
reconnoitering  by  the  page  ended  in  his  flinging  the 
door  wide  open,  and  two  more  officers  entered.  They 
brought  commands  from  the  Minister;  we  were  to  at- 
tend him  straightway.  A  closed  carriage  had  been  sent 
for  us  to  the  Palazzo  Mocenni. 

"  Let  us  go,"  I  said,  after  locking  the  secret  drawer? 


336  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

from  which  we  had  unearthed  Tiberio's  manuscripts. 
But  Ascanio  begged  an  instant  to  change  his  dress.  "  If 
we  are  doomed  to  another  meeting  with  Santa  Fiora," 
he  said,  looking  toward  me,  "  I  must  appear  in  my 
proper  costume.  You  have  seen  and  admired  it,  Ser 
Inglese." 

One  of  the  gendarmes  accompanied  him  to  the  room 
where  he  usually  slept.  It  was  not  long  before  he  came 
back,  resplendent  in  the  Lincoln  green,  with  belt  and 
tassels,  bearing  in  his  hand  the  hat  with  its  peacock's 
plumes.  There  was  a  cry  of  admiration.  "  Pretty, 
is  n't  it?"  he  said,  turning  round  on  his  heel  that  we 
might  take  in  the  full  effect.  "  All  the  same,  peacock's 
feathers  are  unlucky — almost  as  bad  as  your  gray  eyes, 
Signore!"  with  a  glance  at  once  merry  and  mocking 
toward  the  foreigner. 

"  Then  take  care  you  do  as  I  bid  you,"  was  my  reply. 
"  Have  you  a  cloak  to  cover  up  all  those  fripperies  till 
they  are  wanted?" 

"  Eccolo,"  he  said,  bringing  out  one  of  those  long 
black  mantles,  lined  with  green,  which  in  England 
would  give  a  man  the  air  of  a  Gipsy,  but  are  common 
in  Rome,  "  and  here  is  a  cap  for  my  curls,"  putting  it 
on  with  a  dandified  air.  "  Now  we  can  start.  Carluc- 
cio,  say  a  prayer  to  the  Madonna  del  Carmine  before 
we  go."  The  others  smiled.  Carlo  held  up  his  hands 
in  a  devout  attitude.  "  Madonna  mia,"  he  went  on 
gravely,  "  if  you  will  only  spare  Ascanio  and  me  this 
time — well,  you  can  throw  in  Luigi,  too,  it  won't  do 
us  any  harm — I  promise  you  oil  for  the  lamp  every 
day  I  get  a  baioccho — yes,  even  if  I  have  to — to  bor- 
row it,  or — in  short — there  are  ways.  You  will,  then, 
as  you  can,  in  your  bounty,  deliver  us  from  Livorno 
and  the  great  devil,  Madonna!  Cosi  sia." 

With  such  equivocal  petitions  to  Heaven  we  forsook 
the  chambers  in  which  we  had  passed  so  many  hours. 


CHAP.  XXIV.]        AMONG  THE  VINEYARDS  337 

Going  down-stairs  we  made  quite  a  small  company. 
At  the  door  one  of  our  gendarmes  mounted  on  the 
box,  another  came  inside  with  us  prisoners;  and  we 
drove  along,  passing  at  every  corner  groups  of  military, 
while  the  pavements  resounded  with  the  clank  of  their 
sabers.  Rome  was  in  a  state  of  siege.  But  crowds 
still  moved  restlessly  backward  and  forward,  exhibiting 
the  sullen,  hangdog  looks  characteristic  of  these  Montesi 
and  Trasteverini  when  their  blood  is  up.  The  city  had 
put  on  a  frown.  I  wished  Camillo  well  out  of  his  port-  . 
folio;  but  as  the  police  did  not  exchange  talk  with  us 
we  were  ignorant  of  what  had  befallen  the  Ministry.  ; 

In  the  Via  Venti  Settembre,  Luigi  and  I  dismounted.  : 
The  guards  went  with  us  inside  the  palazzo ;  and  I  was 
once  more  seated  with  this  shadow  of  a  prince,  whose 
trembling  heart  alone  seemed  to  retain  a  spark  of 
vitality.  "  I  bring  you  a  fresh  bandit,  Don  Camillo," 
said  I,  looking  sharply  into  his  faded  countenance. 
"  He  says  you  have  seen  him  before ;  now  he  has  a 
letter  from — our  common  enemy." 

"  But  I  had  one  this  morning  by  post,"  said  Camillo ; 
"what  does  this  mean?"  He  tore  the  missive  open, 
read,  and  folded  it  again  methodically.  "  A  duplicate, 
to  make  sure  of  the  scheme,"  he  said  in  his  weary  ac- 
cents;  "  ragazzo — wait  outside  till  you  are  wanted." 

Luigi  took  himself  off  with  a  timid  reverence.  The 
Prince  sat  down.  "  I  think  these  accumulated  troubles 
will  kill  me,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause.  "  No  time  to 
be  lost,  therefore.  Let  me  explain  how  things  stand. 
The  Chambers  meet  this  afternoon;  I  cannot  doubt 
there  will  be  a  vote  of  censure,  and  my  father-in-law 
will  resign.  But  until  that  is  done,  I  am  fastened  here 
on  the  cross.  No,  let  be  what  may" — interrupting 
himself — "to-morrow  I  will  attempt  Roccaforte.  But 
there  is  a  strange  tangle  in  events.  Sforza  writes  me, 
twice  over,  that  he  is  certain  Santa  Flora's  whole  band 

22 


338  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

will  be  collected  on  Friday  at  Le  Pergole — a  masseria 
down  near  Arpino.  It  seems  that  Santa  Fiora  is  there 
now.  We  can  take  them  by  following  Sforza's  direc- 
tions, on  Friday,  like  rabbits  in  a  warren." 

"Will  Tiberio  be  with  them  when  the  stroke  falls, 
my  Prince?  " 

He  shook  his  head.  "  Much  too  wary.  I  know  not 
even  now  the  place  he  writes  from.  No,  I  am  to  send 
him  word  of  the  capture  by  a  certain  Candia — I  remem- 
ber the  woman  in  old  days  at  Roccaforte.  Then  we 
shall  both  have  done  our  part.  It  was  always  under- 
stood— to  this  kind  of  bargain  it  is  essential — that  the 
informer  keeps  dark.  There  is  plenty  of  evidence  with- 
out his  appearing  at  the  trial." 

"  Of  course  you  will  have  Candia  followed  ?  " 

"What  do  you  take  me  for?  I  am  reckoning  on 
that.  You  and  I  at  the  castle — this  band  of  ruffians 
broken  up,  and  Sforza  tracked  to  his  den — we  shall, 
with  God's  blessing,  see  our  way  to  recover  Costanza. 
But  all  stealthily,  else—" 

A  shudder  passed  as  in  the  air.  Too  well  I  appre- 
hended what  his  breaking  off  signified.  It  was  the 
haunting  horror  of  those  days,  which  not  for  one  mo- 
ment, sleeping  or  waking,  quitted  my  imagination,  that 
had  now  seized  upon  him  likewise. 

I  informed  the  Prince  of  what  Tiberio  had  written  to 
his  page.  The  surrender  was  evidently  to  be- complete 
and  final  of  all  who  had  served  him  hitherto.  After 
various  questions,  Camillo  said,  "  The  evidence  in  these 
manuscripts  " — they  were  lying  before  him  as  he  spoke 
— "  is  probably  sufficient ;  it  may  need  corroboration. 
I  hold  to  giving  Santa  Fiora  a  free  pardon  for  that  pur- 
pose. He  and  his  band  must,  however,  be  captured 
first.  Have  you  the  will,  Signer,  to  go  with  these  two 
brigands  and  the  lad,  this  day,  to  Le  Pergole — the 
gendarmes  accompanying  you,  and  a  detachment  of  mili- 


CHAP.  XXIV.]        AMONG  THE  VINEYARDS  339 

tary  joining  as  arranged  by  telegraph,  from  the  garrison 
nearest  to  this  farm-house?  There  may  be  some  scuffling; 
though,  with  a  little  tact,  you  and  the  others  could  get 
Santa  Fiora  quietly  into  your  hands.  Then,  to-morrow, 
you  same  three — we  shall  not  want  this  Luigi — meet 
me  outside  Velletri  at  noon;  the  gendarmes  will  know 
exactly  where — and  we  go  up  to  Roccaforte.  What 
say  you?" 

"  Agreed,  certainly,  Don  Camillo.  But  how  can  we 
reach  Le  Pergole  to-day?" 

"  Easily.  At  every  ten  miles  you  shall  have  fresh 
horses.  You  drive  a  little  round,  for  the  sake  of  the 
smooth  roads.  By  nightfall  you  will  be  there.  This 
Carluccio,  as  you  tell  me,  knows  the  building  well. 
Ebbene;  let  him  and  the  boy  pretend  that  you  are  a 
foreigner  they  have  entrapped.  You  are  taken  to  Santa 
Fiora ;  I  leave  the  rest  to  your  skill  and  courage !  And 
now,  at  Velletri  to-morrow,  a  rivederci!" 

We  were  soon  bowling  along  the  Appian  Way — 
myself,  Carlo,  and  the  Robin  Hood  page,  his  finery 
concealed  under  the  green-lined  cloak — in  a  sort  of 
diligence,  which  allowed  us  to  stretch  our  limbs,  and  to 
take  an  occasional  view  of  the  landscape  through  its 
dusty  canvas  curtains.  Two  gendarmes  sat  on  the  box 
and  two  inside.  We  raced  forward  with  a  quickening 
sense  of  speed  and  of  dangers  to  come,  not  unlike  that, 
I  dare  say,  which  a  young  conscript  feels  as  he  is  whirled 
and  hustled  into  his  first  brush  with  the  enemy.  We 
talked  in  monosyllables.  Our  plan  had  been  carefully 
drawn  out ;  the  perilous  turns  in  it  devolved  on  Carluc- 
cio and  myself,  who  both  wore  concealed  weapons ;  but 
once  and  again  I  saw  the  page  lay  his  head  on  the  rim 
of  the  carriage  and  sob  vehemently.  The  thought  of 
his  master  was  agony ;  but  perhaps  not  less  did  it  tear 
this  unhappy  lad's  conscience  that  he  was  now  going  to 


340  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BooK  IV. 

betray  him.  Carluccio  stroked  the  fair  curls,  whispered 
comfort  in  vain.  I  had  no  remedy  for  these  pangs 
except  to  seem  unaware  of  them,  feeding  my  sight 
with  all  the  charm  of  field  and  lake  and  sea-shore,  as  we 
flew  through  the  land,  summer  about  us  on  every  side. 
We  changed  horses  continually ;  the  fresh  pair  of  steeds 
cantered  along;  the  villages  came  out  to  meet  us  and 
ran  by;  and  as  we  skirted  the  Monti  Lepini,  and  at 
last  turned  up  toward  Arpino,  I  sank  into  an  uneasy 
slumber  which  was  filled  with  visions  of  the  whirling 
country. 

Carluccio  woke  me  with  a  start.  "  We  get  down 
here,"  he  said;  there  was  excitement  in  his  voice. 
"  Le  Pergole  is  at  half  an  hour's  distance  by  walking." 

When  we  left  our  dusty  diligence,  we  found  that  a  de- 
tachment of  bersaglieri  from  the  barracks  at had 

been  sent  to  meet  us.  They  were  skilfully  posted  in 
the  woods,  and,  thanks  to  my  young  friend's  knowledge 
of  the  country,  these  alert  little  soldiers  could  keep  our 
trail  to  the  walls  and  vines  of  Le  Pergole.  At  a  signal 
they  were  to  invade  the  farm-house,  having  previously 
captured  and  silenced  the  scouts  whom  they  could  sur- 
prise without  danger.  Now  we  of  the  vanguard  set  out 
unattended.  Ascanio  threw  off  his  cloak,  and  became 
transformed  into  a  fascinating  though  pale-faced  Rosa- 
lind ;  while  I,  according  to  my  part,  put  on  the  air  of  a 
Milord  Inglese,  led  between  this  page  and  his  comrade 
the  vignerolo  into  a  snare. 

It  was  an  evening  full  of  peace  and  suavity.  The 
whole  land  breathed  fragrance.  As  we  went  up  the 
narrow  lane  which  halted  at  Le  Pergole,  I  could  only 
think  of  that  perfect  idyl  which  certain  familiar  words 
called  forth,  and  which  was  here  an  exquisite  sensation, 
"  The  vines  in  flower  yield  their  sweet  smell."  Le 
Pergole — as  who  should  say,  "  The  Trellises  " — de- 
served its  name.  We  encountered  a  peasant  or  two, 


CHAP.  XXIV.]        AMONG  THE  VINEYARDS  341 

both  before  crossing  into  the  vineyard  and  afterward — 
idle  figures  and  not  prepossessing  faces — who  greeted 
me  civilly,  making  a  marked  difference  between  the 
stranger  and  his  companions.  But  Ascanio's  theatrical 
accoutrements  did  not  seem  to  startle  them.  Carluccio, 
I  was  sure,  had  exchanged  signs  with  these  fair-spoken 
laboring  men,  though  I  had  not  seen  him  doing  so. 

The  front  gates  were  open;  we  passed  into  a  capa- 
cious yard ;  my  young  man  demanded  of  a  fellow  loiter- 
ing there,  "  The  Padrone  a  casa?  " 

"  In  the  saloon  above  the  wine-press,"  answered  he, 
and  turned  away  to  other  business. 

"That  is  the  best  room  for  our  purpose,"  whispered 
Carluccio.  "  Now,  Signore,  please  understand  as  little 
Italian  as  possible.  But  when  I  say,  '  Here  is  our  pris- 
oner,' you  know  what  you  have  to  do.  In  God's  name, 
forward." 

We  ascended  the  stairs ;  Carlo  gave  a  queer  little 
knock  at  the  door  to  which  they  led,  and  a  high  voice 
cried,  "  Avanti." 

It  was  the  human  serpent,  Santa  Fiora — and  alone. 
I  knew  him  instantly.  When  he  caught  sight  of  As- 
canio  his  face  grew  longer.  "  Before  your  time,"  he 
exclaimed.  "  Has — has  the  market  gone  well  to-day  ?  " 

"  Could  n't  go  better,"  replied  the  boy ;  "  we  sold 
everything  early,  and,  as  you  see,  have  got  back  in 
good  time." 

While  he  spoke  neither  the  page  nor  Carluccio  let  go 
my  hands,  which  they  had  taken  in  a  kind  of  sport. 
Thus  we  came  up,  all  three,  close  to  Santa  Fiora ;  upon 
which  the  elder  of  these  lads  began  to  move  round 
gently,  so  as  to  stand  between  the  captain  and  the 
window.  My  cue  was  to  look  embarrassed  and  sheep- 
ish, allowing  a  certain  anxiety  to  peep  out  of  my  eyes ; 
nor,  in  the  situation,  was  it  a  hard  part  to  play.  The 
serpent  never  took  his  gaze  off  me. 


342  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

"You  are  brave  ragazzi,"  he  said,  smiling  with  his 
detestable  teeth.  "  And  so  you  have  brought  the 
honorable  Signer  to  our  house?  What  can  we  do  to 
pleasure  you,  sir?" 

Carluccio,  edging  round  always,  struck  in,  "  The 
honorable  Signer  is  a  traveler.  He  was  so  charmed 
with  the  appearance  of  our  vines  that  I  told  him  he 
would  like  the  juice  of  them  better  still;  that,  in  short, 
our  Padrone  had  some  delicious  golden  wine  up  here, 
which  he  would  decant  with  the  greatest  satisfaction." 

"Surely  I  will,"  answered  Santa  Fiora;  "there  are 
some  flasks  in  the  cupboard  behind  me,"  turning  round 
as  if  to  get  them. 

"  And  you  are  my  prisoner!"  cried  Carlo,  in  a  joking 
voice. 

"  Eh — what  the  devil ! "  screamed  Santa  Fiora,  strug- 
gling in  the  lad's  grasp. 

He  screamed  no  more.  I  held  his  long  arms  pin- 
ioned; Carluccio  had  stuffed  a  handkerchief  into  his 
mouth,  and  Ascanio  was  quietly  fastening  a  cord  round 
his  legs.  In  two  minutes  the  thing  was  done.  Only 
his  rolling  eyes  were  free ;  and  the  reptile — he  looked 
it  more  than  ever  with  his  limbs  fastened  close  to  his 
body — turned  them  in  blank  amazement  from  one  to 
the  other  of  us.'  We  laid  him  at  length  on  the  floor, 
trussed  up  like  a  fowl.  Then  Carlo,  going  to  the  win- 
dow, flung  it  open,  and  whistled  three  times,  loud  and 
clear.  He  had  no  sooner  done  so  than,  from  every 
corner  of  the  vineyard,  our  bersaglieri  sprang  out.  On 
their  journey  up  they  had  bound  several  of  the  brig- 
ands, taken  unawares  from  behind.  They  now  seized 
the  men  who  were  lounging  at  their  ease  about  the 
building,  unarmed  and  off  their  guard;  they  had  not 
the  faintest  suspicion  that  enemies  were  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. It  was  a  splendid  stroke,  without  bloodshed  or 
broken  heads.  But  I  thought  Santa  Fiora  would  have 


CHAP.  XXIV.]        AMONG  THE  VINEYARDS  343 

expired  in  a  paroxysm  that  brought  to  his  lips  foam 
such  as  a  rabid  animal  spits  from  him. 

The  saloon  was  full  of  bersaglieri.  Their  command- 
ing officer — a  very  perfect  gentleman — saluted  me  and 
said,  "  You  will  pardon  my  strictness,  I  am  sure,  but 
it  is  understood — is  it  not? — that  till  further  orders  you 
remain  in  my  charge?" 

I  bowed.  "A  mere  formality,"  he  continued;  "there 
is  another  gentleman  here  in  similar  plight,  the  Mar- 
chese  di  Lucera.  We  have  just  released  him  from  these 
gentry;  but  he  will  be  our  prisoner  till  we  hear  from 
Rome." 

"  Lucera  still  unransomed?"  I  said,  in  great  trouble. 
"  I  beg  of  you,  sir,  let  the  gag  be  taken  from  this  vil- 
lain's mouth,  so  that  he  may  answer  my  questions.  In 
your  presence — s'  intende — of  course.  Life  and  death 
may  depend  on  it." 

The  officer,  keeping  only  a  couple  of  men  near  him, 
gave  directions  as  I  asked.  Santa  Fiora  sat  up  and 
glared  around. 

"  Now,  Carluccio,"  I  said,  "  explain  to  this  creature 
what  Don  Camillo  proposes — we  have  the  papers  with 
us —  free  pardon  in  return  for  full  information.  And 
ask  him  what  has  become  of  the  lady." 

My  dragoman  had  no  small  difficulty  in  persuading 
this  vermin  that  now  he  was  trapped  he  should  not  be 
given  to  the  dogs.  His  face  brightened  on  seeing  the 
official  document,  which  the  captain,  standing  by,  did 
not  contradict.  "  What  do  you  want  to  know?  "  he  in- 
quired in  a  sulky  undertone.  "Who  is  this  stranger 
that  seems  to  have  a  taste  for  good  wine  and  asks  about 
a  lady?" 

"  You  answer  me  properly,  brigand,"  said  Carluccio, 
with  keen  relish  of  the  altered  position  in  which  he  stood 
to  his  late  chief.  "  Never  mind  who  the  Signer  may 
be.  Where  is  Donna  Costanza  ?" 


344  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

"All  the  devils  in  hell  make  fritters  of  me,  if  I 
know,"  said  Santa  Fiora.  "  Livorno  took  her  with  him 
days  ago.  The  more  fool  I  to  let  him." 

"You  lie,  brigand/'  answered  his  former  subject. 
"  You  durst  as  soon  hinder  Satan  from  carrying  off 
your  soul — which  he  will  do  yet — as  throw  yourself 
across  the  path  of  Livorno.  He  is  a  tiger,  brigand; 
you  are  a  rat." 

"  Remember,  Santa  Fiora,"  I  said,  interposing,  "  how 
he  made  you  lay  down  on  the  flagstone  in  the  colum- 
barium five  thousand  lire  more  than  you  meant  to  shell 
out.  So  don't  boast,  but  tell  the  truth — if  you  know  how." 

At  these  words  he  fell  back  on  the  floor.  "  Are  you 
Old  Nick  himself?"  he  cried  with  a  shiver,  using  an 
Italian  idiom,  and  rolling  away  from  me.  "  Don't  come 
near,  for  the  love  of  God!  If  you  saw  that  business 
you  know  everything.  But  I  swear  to  you — here, 
some  one,  give  me  a  hand  up  " — and  when  he  was  seated 
with  his  back  to  the  wall  he  went  on,  "  strike  me  dead 
if  I  can  tell  you  more  than  this.  Livorno  took  the 
Princess,  with  four  of  our  men,  to  an  old  ruin  in  the 
Isola  of  the  Gran  Sasso,  days  ago.  He  left  here  thirty 
thousand  lire — you  see  I  'm  open  with  you  as  the 
crater  of  Vesuvius — in  part  payment  for  the  girl; 
otherwise,  you  damned  Carluccio,  I  would  have  torn 
her  heart  out  of  her  body  before  he  should  have  her. 
On  Friday  morning  we  were  to  get  seventy  thousand 
more,  not  a  soldo  abated,  as  Lucera's  ransom ;  and  that 
is  why  the  whole  band  was  to  be  here — this  little 
scorpion  of  an  Ascanio  as  well  as  the  others ;  while 
the  Count  did  as  he  liked  with  the  damsel.  What  's 
going  to  happen  now,  choke  me  with  the  Sacrament  if 
I  can  guess." 

"But  is  there  no  way  of  saving  Donna  Costanza?" 
I  cried.  "  Have  n't  you  any  means  of  trapping  the 
villain  before — before?" 


CHAP.  XXIV.]        AMONG  THE  VINEYARDS  345 

Santa  Fiora  gloated  over  my  agony.  "  Why,  you 
callow  fowl,"  he  shrieked  in  his  raven's  voice,  "  she  has 
been  up  there  at  least  a  week.  If  you  know  so  much 
about  me,  you  ought  to  be  a  little  better  acquainted 
with  Livorno.  He  is  a  choice  morsel  for  the  devil's 
frying-pan.  Eh,  eh,"  he  concluded  in  tones  of  fero- 
cious enjoyment,  "  so  you  've  got  to  learn  our  good  old 
saying  yet,  '  Donna  baciata  e  mezzo  mangiata.'  I  '11 
take  my  oath  on  the  Mass-book  your  Lady  Costanza 
would  be  glad  to  go  before  the  paroco  with  Livorno  at 
this  time  of  day.  A  proud,  praying  Santuccia,  but  not 
virgin  and  martyr — oh  no ! "  He  screamed  again  with 
laughter,  and  the  froth  fell  from  his  lips. 

"  Was  Livorno  coming  here  on  Friday  with  the 
scudi  ? "  asked  Carluccio,  seeing  there  was  no  more 
information  to  be  dragged  or  torn  from  the  wretch. 
"  Who  was  to  bring  it  ?  " 

"  Lucera  had  sent  for  his  steward  to  visit  him  at  this 
farm,"  answered  the  capobanda;  "your  Count  did  not 
mean,  I  take  it,  to  put  in  an  appearance.  We  held  the 
Marchese  tight;  no  fear  of  the  steward  giving  us  the 
slip  while  his  master's  throat  lay  convenient  to  our 
razors.  If  you  want  Livorno,  hunt  for  him.  And 
where  's  Lucera  now?"  speaking  with  great  insolence 
to  the  captain  of  bersaglieri. 

"  He  is  where  no  communication  will  be  held  with  him 
until  orders  are  given  which  do  not  depend  on  you," 
returned  the  officer,  calmly.  "  To-night  Le  Pergole  is 
under  my  command.  In  the  morning  you  shall  hear 
what  remains  to  be  executed  before  your  pardon  is 
made  out.  And  now,  Signor,"  inclining  his  head  to- 
ward me,  "  I  will  find  you  comfortable  quarters.  My 
men  will  see  to  these.  Have  the  goodness  to  follow 
me." 

So  we  passed  the  night  at  Le  Pergole,  each  haunted 
by  his  own  dreams ;  and  mine  were  sad  ones. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  THEBAN  BROTHERS 

THE  morning  broke  in  calm  splendor;  it  was  such 
a  day  as  Heaven's  great  year  brings  forth.  But 
our  characters  were  already  marked  down  for  us ;  and 
leisurely — for  Prince  Camillo  would  not  be  meeting  us 
until  noon  outside  Velletri — we  took  our  collation,  and 
fell  into  knots  of  talkers,  guarded  always  by  the  bersag- 
lieri.  Of  the  captive  Marchese  I  had  been  vouchsafed 
not  a  glimpse.  The  brigands,  comforted  by  a  hint  from 
Santa  Fiora,  which  he  was  permitted  to  give  them,  of 
pardon  under  easy  conditions,  sank  into  the  pigrizia, 
the  idle  mooning,  or  half-sleepy  conversation,  which  is 
their  pastime  when  off  duty — that  is  to  say,  when  neither 
plundering  the  defenseless  nor  fleeing  before  the  car- 
bineers. They  did  not  mention  Livorno;  he  was  a 
failure  now,  and  as  little  mourned  over  as  any  dead 
monarch.  Remarkably  enough,  they  seemed  to  bear  no 
malice  toward  the  youths,  Carluccio  and  the  Rosalind- 
page,  who  had  done  them  this  bad  turn.  But  I  knew 
how  long  the  Camorristi  had  kept  their  knives  sharpened, 
to  strike  at  last,  in  other  instances ;  and  I  admired  their 
habits  of  dissembling  more  than  I  should  have  trusted  to 
their  Christian  meekness. 

The  capture  had  been  effected  with  a  secrecy  beyond 
all  praise.  It  was  now  determined  by  our  polite  officer 
that  we  should  go  forward  in  small  parties;  my  two 

34<> 


CHAP.  XXV.]          THE  THEBAN  BROTHERS  347 

companions  and  I  in  the  diligence  which  had  brought 
us ;  the  brigands  divided  among  the  soldiers ;  and  that 
a  force  should  be  left  in  and  about  Le  Pergole  to  deal 
with  Sforza,  or  with  his  messenger,  on  the  Friday.  I 
had  considered  whether  Ascanio  might  be  despatched 
in  quest  of  him  to  the  Island  of  the  Gran  Sasso;  but  on 
second  thoughts  I  refrained  from  proposing  this  plan  to 
the  captain.  There  would  be  a  risk  of  scaring  the  game 
by  prematurely  beating  up  the  coverts ;  and,  what  was 
more  serious,  I  could  not  reckon  on  the  sensitive  and 
heartbroken  lad  if  he  once  came  face  to  face  with  the 
master  he  had  loved  so  passionately.  One  act  of  trea- 
son might  be  made  to  atone  for  another ;  the  old  affec- 
tion might  triumph,  and  Tiberio  slip  out  of  our  hands 
after  all.  We  must  take  him  by  stratagem,  either  at 
the  farm-house,  should  he  venture  into  it,  or  by  follow- 
ing the  witch  Candia  to  her  trysting-place  with  him. 

As  the  midday  Angelus  rang  from  the  churches  and 
convents  of  Velletri,  the  Prince  drove  up  to  our  dili- 
gence, stationed  under  giant  chestnut-trees.  He  shook 
hands  with  me  and  said,  almost  smiling,  though  his 
eyes  had  kept  a  weary  vigil,  "  The  Ministry  is  down. 
A  vote  of  censure  has  finished  us ;  I  retain  the  seals  of 
office  until  my  successor  is  appointed.  The  telegraph 
informed  me  late  last  night  that  you  had  caught  Santa 
Fiora.  Where  is  the  holy  man?" 

At  these  words  the  captain  of  bersaglieri  came  for- 
ward. I  fell  into  the  background,  and  the  Prince  held 
a  short  colloquy  with  him.  "  Yes,  that  is  what  I  desire," 
said  Don  Camillo,  raising  his  voice,  and  approaching  me 
once  more.  "  These  fellows,"  pointing  to  the  brigands, 
"  will  now  be  held  fast  in  the  barracks  here  till  I  give 
fresh  orders.  But  I  shall  want  Santa  Fiora  and  those 
two  giovanotti  of  yours  at  Roccaforte  as  witnesses  on 
your  behalf  and  mine  with  my  poor  father." 

His  voice  shook ;  he  paused,  as  if  unable  to  continue. 


348  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

Then,  recovering  himself,  "  But  it  appears  to  me  that 
they  should  follow  after  us  at  an  interval,  so  as  not  to 
alarm  the  castle,  and  to  give  time  for  our  peaceful  en- 
trance on  the  scene.  How  does  it  strike  you,  Signer?" 

"  As  full  of  consideration  for  his  Highness  the  Duke," 
was  my  answer.  "  In  any  event,  he  will  be  exposed  this 
day  to  some  violent  and  agitating  disclosures.  He  is  an 
aged  man,  alone  with  his  great  grief.  I  think  you  could 
not  do  more  to  spare  him.  But  you  will  have  soldiers 
posted  round  Roccaforte?" 

"  A  few  men  well  armed,  in  the  disguise  of  cattle- 
dealers,"  he  said.  "We  must  excite  as  little  suspicion 
as  may  be.  You  have  divined  my  intentions  toward 
the  Duke,"  he  went  on,  as  we  mounted  into  his  car- 
riage. "  I  feel  that  all  manner  of  perils  lie  in  wait  for 
us ;  not  the  least  is  that  of  my  father  breaking  down 
under  so  many  conflicting  emotions.  But  let  us  utter 
good  words  or  none.  We  draw  misfortune  upon  our 
heads  by  talking  of  it." 

Neither  of  us,  indeed,  was  eager  for  conversation  as 
our  carriage  turned  into  the  well-known  paths,  and 
trees,  rocks,  and  houses  came  as  if  to  greet  our  steps 
during  the  slow  upward  drive.  To  me,  a  stranger  six 
months  ago,  it  was  all  familiar  now ;  and  I  strained  my 
sight  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  double  platform  cut  out 
of  the  solid  crags,  on  which  the  village,  white  in  the 
afternoon  sunshine,  spread  itself  above  us.  Aye,  there  it 
was.  I  could  count  the  houses,  so  distinct  did  they 
appear;  and  the  frowning  keep  with  its  walls  and  bas- 
tions towered  on  high,  the  forest-trees  seeming  to  make 
a  frame  for  its  lower  parts,  the  mountains  behind  com- 
pleting it  as  with  a  range  of  carved  battlements.  My 
companion,  to  whom  these  were  memories  of  a  lifetime, 
showed  how  deeply  he  was  stirred  by  an  added  flush 
and  by  sighing  frequently.  I  thought,  but  did  not  dare 
to  whisper,  that  the  scene  to  which  we  were  momently 


CHAP.  XXV.]          THE  THEBAN   BROTHERS  349 

drawing  nearer  would  try  him  fully  as  much  as  the  old 
man  that  sat  up  there  in  his  lonely  grandeur,  not  know- 
ing who  was  driving  to  his  door. 

Some  distance  from  the  gates  the  carriage  drew  up, 
and,  giving  Camillo  an  arm,  I  helped  him  to  alight,  our 
resolution  being  to  make  our  way  inside  Roccaforte 
without  warning  to  master  or  servants.  There  was  no 
one  visible  as  we  passed  through  the  medieval  arch, 
black  with  storms  and  tempests,  which  displayed  over 
our  heads  its  sanguinary  motto  and  the  dagger  pointing 
down.  A  silence  which  might  have  been  undisturbed 
for  centuries  lay  on  the  rude  flags  of  the  courtyard. 
The  inner  doors  stood  open;  and  we  advanced  with- 
out a  word  to  the  chief  staircase,  at  the  head  of  which, 
on  one  side,  was  the  Hall  of  Mirrors — where  I  had  been 
presented  on  my  first  coming  to  the  Duke, — and  on  the 
other  that  Sala  Grande,  associated  with  more  than  one 
decisive  incident  in  this  tragedy. 

We  mounted  the  stairs — as  he  might  have  done,  the 
fairy  prince  who  came  to  wake  the  Sleeping  Beauty — 
with  steps  at  once  passionate  and  uncertain.  "  Hark," 
said  Camillo,  and  his  foot  rested  in  suspense,  "  what 
sounds  are  those?  " 

I  listened.  They  came  from  behind  the  closed  doors 
of  the  Great  Hall.  Voices  not  subdued ;  the  stamping 
of  feet;  and,  as  I  thought,  the  clash  of  weapons. 
"  There  is  a  combat  going  on  inside,"  exclaimed  the 
Prince.  With  a  firm  thrust  he  flung  the  door  wide  and 
rushed  in,  followed  by  me  in  an  amazement  which  the 
words  I  now  caught  did  not  lessen. 

"  Ha,  Gaetano,"  cried  a  well-known  voice,  "  a  narrow 
escape  for  you  that  time.  You  parried  my  stroke 
villainously.  'Out  of  practice,'  you  say?  I  should 
think  so." 

The  sudden  opening  of  the  door  made  both  com- 
batants pause  and  look  toward  it  with  a  wonder  equal 


350  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

to  mine.  At  a  glance  I  saw  what  was  taking  place. 
Gaetano,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  his  back  to  us,  had  been 
fencing  with  Hagedorn,  also  in  undress,  and  had  just 
received  a  smart  touch  that  made  him  stagger.  The 
light  was  in  his  eyes  when  he  turned  round.  A  few 
feet  within  the  entrance  I  had  stopped,  on  seeing  that 
it  was  no  real  exchange  of  blows,  but  mere  exercise ; 
and  Camillo  stood  alone  in  the  center  of  the  room,  his 
hands  raised  as  if  to  inquire  the  significance  of  all  this. 
A  second  of  time  flashed  by  while  we  looked  on  one 
another.  Then  Gaetano,  his  features  mantling  to  a 
purple  fury,  took  one  stride  forward,  and  crying  in  a 
husky  voice,  "  Camillo!"  struck  him  across  the  temples 
with  the  flat  of  his  rapier.  The  Prince  fell  senseless  on 
the  floor. 

Another  second  had  not  passed  before  I  was  grappling 
with  Gaetano  and  had  wrested  the  weapon  out  of  his 
hand.  "  Shame,"  I  thundered  at  him,  "  shame  on  you ! 
Do  you  receive  a  brother  in  this  fashion?  Here, 
Hagedorn,  help  me  to  hinder  fratricide." 

The  German  was  not  less  excited  than  ourselves,  but 
he  understood  the  force  of  my  outcries,  and  seized 
Gaetano  by  the  wrist.  "  He  is  right,  mio  caro  ;  control 
yourself — in  God's  name,  for  your  father's  soul,  I  entreat 
you — keep  calm.  Would  you  have  these  walls  sprinkled 
a  second  time  with  a  brother's  blood?  Never  mind  the 
weapon,  I  say.  Gaetano,  will  you  commit  murder  on 
your  own  hearthstone?" 

Sullenly,  as  if  not  yet  awakened  from  his  rage,  the 
younger  brother  gave  in  to  these  remonstrances.  Hage- 
dorn held  him  on  one  side,  while  I  stood  with  the  con- 
quered rapier  in  my  hand  a  little  way  off,  determined  to 
shield  Camillo.  With  burning  scorn  my  former  friend 
glared  at  me.  "  It  is  you,  Signor,  again,"  he  said  be- 
tween his  teeth,  "  our  evil  demon.  What  blast  from 
Hades  brings  you  hither?" 


CHAP.  XXV.]          THE  THEBAN  BROTHERS  351 

I  knelt  down  by  the  prostrate  man,  who  seemed  to  be 
recovering,  and  lilted  him  from  the  floor.  "  Hagedorn, 
water,  please,"  I  said,  without  glancing  toward  Gaetano ; 
"  there  is  some  on  the  table.  Quick — he  will  faint  once 
more." 

The  water  was  brought.  I  put  it  to  his  lips  and 
bathed  his  forehead,  where  a  crimson  wale  had  begun 
to  show  the  track  of  the  sword.  Happily,  there  was  no 
wound.  "  I  am  not  injured — nothing  to  speak  of,"  mur- 
mured Camillo,  rising  with  difficulty  to  his  feet  and 
tottering  into  a  curule-chair  beside  the  window.  "  Have 
a  little  patience,  brother.  I  did  not  know  you  were  at 
home." 

"  Therefore  you  come  with  this  vile  English  traitor, 
who  always  stabs  in  the  back,"  retorted  Gaetano.  "  But, 
if  I  spare  you,  by  the  God  that  redeemed  me,  I  will  not 
spare  him.  Albaspina,  your  weapon!  And  you,  sir," 
with  ineffable  contempt,  throwing  the  words  into  my 
teeth,  "  take  the  button  off  the  foil,  and,  at  last,  quit 
yourself  like  a  man." 

"  Like  a  madman,  I  suppose  you  mean,  Don  Gae- 
tano," said  I.  "  We  have  something  more  serious  on 
hand  than  to  be  mimicking  the  Corsican  Brothers.  Do 
you  know  what  has  become  of  Donna  Costanza?" 

"Do  I  know?"  he  repeated  with  strange  hilarity. 
"The  Englishman  asks  me  do  I  know?  Ah,  Madre 
Santissima,  but  this  is  too  much!" 

He  shook,  and  shook  again,  with  laughter.  I  was  be- 
ginning to  fear  that  misfortune  had  unsettled  his  brain  ; 
but  the  appearance  of  Hagedorn,  more  tranquil  than 
disturbed,  was  a  puzzle  to  me.  "  Yes,  I  do  ask  what 
has  become  of  Donna  Costanza,"  I  said  angrily ;  "  if  you, 
her  brother,  can  be  indifferent  to  her  fate,  others  are  not." 

With  a  terrible  effort,  to  which  swollen  veins  on  the 
forehead  and  a  thick  utterance  bore  witness,  he  held 
himself  in.  "Take  care — take  care  how  you  speak  to 


352  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

me,"  he  said  in  a  hoarse  undertone,  "  or  I  will  strangle 
you  where  you  stand.  How  dare  you  name  my  sister 
in  this  house  ?  You — but  are  you  no  less  impudent 
than  cowardly?" 

Don  Camillo,  bathing  his  lips  to  moisten  them,  inter- 
posed in  a  feeble  voice.  "  You  wrong  the  man,  Gae- 
tano.  There  is  some  fearful  misunderstanding.  What 
is  your  charge  against  him  ?  " 

"Yes,  let  me  hear  the  accusation,"  I  said;  "if  it  is 
proved,  you  will  not  need  to  kill  me,  Don  Gaetano.  I 
will  spare  you  a  task  so  ignominious." 

"You  may  well  say  ignominious,"  he  rejoined.  "But 
surely  you  are  a  superb  liar.  What  do  I  charge  upon 
you,  reptile?  I  charge  you  with  having  sold  this  an- 
cient family  to  brigands.  I  charge  you  with  being  hand 
and  glove  with  Santa  Fiora,  delivering  his  messages  for 
him,  leading  me  and  mine  into  his  toils,  abducting  my 
sister  by  means  of  his  infernal  gang.  I  charge  you 
with  the  murder  of  Renzaccio ;  with  blackmail,  rape, 
and  treason  to  one  whom  you  fawned  upon  as  your 
dearest  friend  when  you  were  laying  his  hearth  desolate. 
That  is  what  I  charge  you  with,  you  hound!" 

Again  Camillo  would  have  interposed.  I  motioned 
him  to  keep  silence.  "  These  charges,  my  dear  Gae- 
tano," I  said,  as  calmly  as  before,  "are  false;  but  I  do 
not  say  you  invented  them.  Of  all  that  another  time. 
For  God's  sake  tell  me  what  news  you  have — or  is  there 
any? — of  the  Princess.  " 

"  Shall  I  tell  you,"  he  cried,  with  blazing  eyes,  "  to 
your  eternal  shame  ?  I  will.  When  you  had  her  taken 
by  Santa  Fiora  " — I  made  a  gesture  of  dissent,  which  he 
swept,  as  it  were,  into  the  pit  with  his  violent  action — 
"  I  say,  when  you  committed  that  crime,  you  reckoned 
without  a  brave  and  honest  man,  as  keen  of  wit  as 
yourself,  and  a  thousand  times  better.  You  know  what 
man  I  mean  ?  " 


CHAP.  XXV.]         THE  THEBAN  BROTHERS  353 

"  The  Count,  whom  I  brought  to  Roccaforte,"  I  said, 
not  blenching. 

"  Ah,  precisely,  the  Count.  Now  let  me  strike  you 
dumb  with  remorse  for  your  treachery.  You  learned 
some  days  ago,  I  doubt  not,  that  Costanza  had  been 
reft  from  your  filthy  hands.  Perhaps  you  did  not  learn 
that  the  Count  rescued  her.  I  conclude  from  your 
visit  this  morning,  in  company  with  the  fallen  Minister, 
whom  even  New  Italy  has  vomited  out — I  conclude 
that  neither  of  you  knows  Costanza  is  safe  beneath  her 
father's  roof,  thanks  to  the  man  who  will  shortly  call 
himself  her  husband  and  my  brother." 

I  could  have  taken  the  Prince  to  my  heart,  as  he  flung 
me  this  unlooked-for,  undreamed-of  intelligence.  Was 
Costanza  safe  ?  Was  she  in  Roccaforte  ?  "  Thanks, 
thanks,"  I  exclaimed,  casting  away  the  weapon  I  held. 
"  Do  as  you  will  with  me  now ;  I  care  not.  But  you  are 
sure,  Gaetano?  You  have  seen  her?  In  this  very 
house?  Don  Camillo,  the  worst  is  over.  What  is  in 
your  thoughts  that  you  shake  your  head  doubtfully?" 

The  younger  man  folded  his  arms,  and  looked  over 
me  with  a  wondering  expression.  Then  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  walked  up  to  Hagedorn.  "  You  un- 
derstand these  English  better  than  we  do,"  he  said.  "  I 
take  it  the  Signor  was  always  crazy.  Tell  him  yourself, 
please,  that  Costanza  is  here ;  that  she  is  going  to 
marry  the  Count.  After  which  he  had  better  leave  the 
castle." 

Hagedorn  was  beginning  to  speak,  when  Don  Camillo 
raised  his  voice.  "  The  Count  is  an  acquaintance  of 
mine,  too,"  he  said.  "  I  had  that  privilege  long  before 
this  gentleman.  But  where  does  he  happen  to  be  at 
present?  Is  he  in  the  castle?" 

"  No,"  said  the  German,  whose  eye  was  toward  the 
window,  "  he  has  gone  out.  Our  knowledge  of  his 
movements  is  not  extensive;  but  he  returns — does 

23 


354  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BooK  IV. 

he  not,  Don  Gaetano?  —  sometime  to-morrow  after- 
noon." 

The  reply  was  given  with  a  slight  hesitation,  proceed- 
ing from  the  fact  that  Hagedorn  seemed  to  be  intent  on 
what  was  inaudible  to  us,  but  visible  to  him,  in  the 
courtyard. 

"  And  Costanza  has  given  her  consent  to  this  mar- 
riage?" asked  Camillo. 

"  That  is  all  settled,"  replied  his  brother,  sententiously. 

There  was  a  brief  silence.  "Who  are  those  men  that 
have  just  come  in  at  the  front?  "  said  Hagedorn.  "  A 
regular  troop  of  them.  Are  they  soldiers  ?  And  that 
boy  in  green  tunic  and  feathers  ?  Come  here,  Gaetano. 
Look,  we  are  invaded." 

The  young  man  was  striding  to  where  Hagedorn 
stood ;  but  Camillo  was  there  before  him.  "  Thank 
Heaven,"  said  the  latter,  fervently,  "  it  is  Santa  Fiora  at 
last!" 

"  It  is  Santa  Fiora  at  last!"  repeated  his  brother,  in 
profound  stupefaction. 

"  Now  you  will  hear  a  true  tale  about  me  and  the 
Count,"  I  said,  smiling;  "we  have  brought  these  wit- 
nesses for  your  benefit." 

Camillo,  as  I  spoke,  unfastened  the  casement  nearest 
him,  and  made  a  signal  that  the  soldiers  should  bring 
their  prisoners  into  the  Great  Hall.  A  military  tramp 
was  heard  on  the  stairs ;  with  commotion  the  doors 
burst  open ;  and  there  filed  in  irregularly  some  half- 
dozen  captives,  each  held  in  leash  by  a  carbineer.  I 
had  expected  to  see  Santa  Fiora  with  my  youthful  com- 
panions of  these  last  days.  But  the  sight  of  Sismondo 
di  Lucera,  his  feathers  drooping,  his  fine  clothes  the 
worse  for  wear,  his  bragging  words  spent  to  the  last 
soldo,  astonished  me  no  less  than  it  did  Gaetano  and 
the  German. 

Behind  the  Marquis  followed,  in  a  state  of  utter  col- 


CHAP.  XXV.]          THE  THEBAN  BROTHERS  355 

lapse,  as  if  anticipating  execution  that  minute,  my  poor 
little  Giovanni  Finocchio.  I  ran  up  and  shook  him  by 
the  hand.  "How  come  you  here,  Vanni?"  I  asked 
eagerly.  He  answered  me  with  glazed  eyes,  in  a  voice 
resigned  to  fate — in  utrumque  paratus — "  Ask  some- 
body else,  Signor;  I  don't  know  anything  except  that 
here  I  am.  This  time,  as  I  warned  you,  Sant'  Antonio 
would  hear  none  of  my  prayers." 

Lucera,  crestfallen  though  he  was,  would  have  ven- 
tured on  speech,  when  Camillo,  very  sternly,  bade  him 
hold  his  peace.  "  You  are  in  the  hands  of  justice,  Mar- 
chese,"  said  he ;  "I  warn  you  how  you  commit  yourself 
further.  Don  Gaetano,"  turning  ceremoniously  to  his 
brother,  who  stood  near  him  in  an  attitude  of  intense 
expectation,  "  I  am  still  the  King's  Minister;  these  per- 
sons attend  here  by  my  orders,  to  answer  any  questions 
you  may  put  to  them.  This  individual,  whom  you  see 
bravely  attired  in  the  uniform  of  a  general,  is  Santa 
Fiora,  who  signs  himself  Count  and  has  twice  corre- 
sponded with  you."  Santa  Fiora  grinned  in  his  ghastly 
fashion,  and  bent  low  on  being  named.  The  Prince 
went  on,  "  These  others  are  members  of  his  company, 
or  associated  with  his  enterprises.  I  think  you  did  not 
answer  the  letters  he  sent  you.  But  he  will  now  satisfy 
your  inquiries  to  the  full." 

I  could  hear  the  statesman's  heart  beating  like  a  ham- 
mer, as  he  sat  down  after  this  dignified  and  ironical 
address.  He  was  flushed  about  the  temples,  and  sipped 
mechanically  from  the  beaker  in  front  of  him.  But 
Gaetano  seemed  still  more  agitated.  Holding  on  to  his 
chair  with  one  hand,  he  said  abruptly  to  the  capobanda, 
"  What  has  the  family  of  Roccaforte  done  to  you,  that 
you  should  attempt  its  destruction?" 

The  brigand  made  him  a  sweeping  salute.  "  Pardon 
me,  Signor  Principe.  What  has  it  done?  Why,  no- 
thing. I  had  no  quarrel  with  your  family."  All  his 


356  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

teeth  glistened;  he  flung  back  his  snaky  locks  in  prepa- 
ration for  another  low  bow.  His  interlocutor  was  visi- 
bly confounded. 

"  But  at  whose  bidding,  then,  did  you  threaten,  burn, 
and  ravish?  At  this  man's?"  pointing  to  me  vindic- 
tively. "Were  you  only  his  agent?" 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  be  saluted.  "  As  I  hope  for 
grace  and  pardon,"  said  Santa  Fiora,  "  I  never  set  eyes 
on  that  gentleman  till  yesterday  :  I  could  n't  tell  you  so 
much  as  his  name." 

"  But  he  knew  more  than  your  name,  long  ago,"  cried 
the  Prince,  exultantly ;  "  he  described  you  in  every 
feature  when  we  rode  after  you  to  the  Monte  Majella. 
How  account  for  that?" 

"  Eh,  because  he  is  in  league  with  Satan,"  retorted  the 
other;  "  he  knows  what  I  paid  down  to  Livorno  when 
we  were  at  four  eyes  in  the  pigeon-house.  He  knows 
everything." 

"  Yes,  Santa  Fiora,"  said  I,  interposing,  "  I  saw  you 
when  you  did  not  see  me.  But  answer  the  Prince. 
Who  set  you  on  writing  those  letters,  burning  down  the 
casino,  and  abducting  Donna  Costanza?  Tell  the  truth 
and  have  no  fear." 

I  could  perceive  that  Lucera's  yellow  face  had 
lengthened  and  grown  terribly  bilious,  or  even  ashen- 
gray,  when  I  came  to  the  last  article  of  my  question. 
He  looked  imploringly  at  Don  Camillo  ;  but  the  Minister 
sipped  his  cold  water  and  waited,  like  the  rest  of  us,  for 
the  answer  which  was  to  burst  in  pieces  a  hellish  plot. 
It  came  after  an  interval  of  the  deepest  silence. 

"  We  must  distinguish,"  Santa  Fiora  began  pleasantly, 
with  fingers  extended.  "  I  despatched  the  letters  and 
set  fire  to  the  casino  at  Livorno's  bidding — " 

"Who  is  Livorno?"  interrupted  the  young  Prince, 
hanging  on  his  next  words. 

"  Livorno  is  the  Count,  as  you  style  him — Tiberio 


CHAP.  XXV.]          THE  THEBAN  BROTHERS  357 

Sforza,  as  others  call  him — the  Tisco  Tosco,  as  we  say 
among  ourselves.  In  short,  he  is  our  manutengolo  that 
has  now  been  wanting  to  sell  us  to  the  Government — 
so  this  great  Minister  will  assure  you,"  bowing  to 
Camillo,  "  if  we  had  not  been  too  sharp  for  the  go- 
between  and  sold  him ! " 

Gaetano  was  a  pitiable  sight  when  these  words  struck 
home.  "  I  cannot  believe  it,"  he  muttered,  putting  his 
hand  to  his  forehead,  which  was  burning  hot.  "  Tell 
me,  then,"  he  suddenly  resumed,  "  who  was  it  that 
planned  my  sister's  abduction?" 

"  Why,  that  is  the  point  I  was  coming  to,  Sir  Prince, 
con  permesso.  As  for  the  plan,  in  general  it  was  the 
Count's  plan ;  but  the  proposal  was  made  to  me  by 
Eccellenza  the  Marchese  di  Lucera." 

"You  lie,  great  hound!"  yelled  Sismondo.  "I  am 
innocent,  I  swear." 

"  Don't  swear,  Marchese,"  threw  in  a  boy's  piping 
clear  voice,  at  which  we  all  started.  "  You  are  certainly 
a  liar;  but  why  perjure  yourself?"  continued  Ascanio. 
"  I  was  present — you  will  remember  this  green  uniform 
of  mine — when  you  met  Santa  Fiora  near  Velletri  by 
appointment.  There  it  was  agreed  that  he  should 
carry  off  the  lady.  But  another  agreement  there  was 
of  which  you  knew  nothing — that  he  should  carry  off 
you  as  well." 

An  irresistible  laugh  broke  out  from  every  one  in  the 
room,  except  Lucera,  when  this  little  narrative  was 
finished. 

"  And  who  may  you  be,  my  pretty  lad  ?  "  inquired 
Hagedorn,  greatly  interested  in  this  gallant  and  sprightly 
apparition. 

Ascanio  sighed.  "  I  was  the  Count's  page,"  he 
answered,  looking  down  modestly. 

"  My  faith,  you  are  hors  de  page  now,"  returned  the 
philosopher,  speaking  in  French. 


358  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

"  Oui,  Mossu,"  said  the  lad,  half  in  fun,  but  the  tears 
stood  in  his  eyes. 

Gaetano  was  turning  over  carefully  in  his  mind  the 
allegations  that  showered  upon  him  from  such  different 
quarters.  He  still  resisted  them. 

"  You  say  that  Lucera  proposed  the  abduction,  but 
the  Count — Livorno,  or  whatever  his  name  may  be — 
planned  its  execution.  What  were  his  views  in  all 
that?" 

"  His  views,  my  Prince?  "  answered  the  brigand,  for 
the  first  time  hesitating  a  little.  "  I  wish  to  God  you 
would  n't  ask  that  question." 

"But  I  do  ask  it,"  said  Gaetano,  doggedly;  "you 
answer  it." 

"  Well — if  I  must — accidentaccio,  can't  you  under- 
stand?— his  views  were  to  get  the  lady  in  his  power, 
and  compel  her  to  marry  him.  How  compel?  If  you 
don't  know  that  now,  you  will  soon  enough.  Where  is 
she?" 

"Liar  and  villain!"  cried  the  Prince,  springing  at 
him,  but  held  back  by  the  carbineers.  "  Son  of  dam- 
nation, it  is  false!  My  sister  is  as  pure  as  the  sun  in 
heaven.  Stainless,  I  tell  you.  If  your  Livorno  laid  a 
hand  upon  her,  it  would  wither  in  that  flame." 

"  Maybe — hope  it  is  so.  No  offense  meant,"  said 
the  brigand,  keeping  a  wary  eye  upon  his  questioner. 
"  You  asked  what  were  his  views,  and  I  tell  you  those 
were  his  views.  He  had  the  lady  taken  from  Le 
Pergole ;  since  then  I  can  inform  you  neither  in  what 
part  of  the  mountains  they  are,  nor  yet  when  he  will 
bring  her  home,  if  he  ever  does.  Is  that  the  end  of  my 
examination?  For  I  'm  pretty  well  fagged." 

"  One  question  more,"  said  Gaetano,  moistening  his 
lips.  "  You  say  the  Signor  Inglese  was  not  concerned  in 
any  of  these  things?  " 

"  He  was  concerned  in  making  me  a  prisoner  yester- 


CHAP.  XXV.]          THE  THEBAN  BROTHERS  359 

day,  I  know  that,"  growled  Santa  Flora.  "  As  for  me 
and  my  band,  we  would  n't  have  dealings  with  such  an 
innocent.  No,  from  the  first  letter  you  got  down  to 
this  blessed  moment,  it  was  all  Livorno  ;  and  I  hope  the 
devil  may  break  him  on  the  wheel,  for  if  he  does  n't  I 
see  no  use  in  the  devil.  Do  you,  gentlemen?"  looking 
round  on  us. 

"  And,  as  regards  Signor  Ardente,"  said  Finocchio, 
amid  the  general  hilarity,  "  since  he  left  Roccaforte,  he 
has  been  with  me,  never  out  of  my  sight,  at  home  or  in 
the  picture-galleries,  all  the  time  until  two  days  ago, 
when  he  and  this  Carluccio  went  to  the  Signor  Minister 
to  have  Livorno  hunted  down — which  God  grant  may 
be  finished  speedily." 

My  poor  Gaetano!  He  was  broken.  Coming  up  to 
me,  he  took  my  hand  without  a  word.  After  a  little 
while  the  tears  gushed  from  his  eyes;  he  stooped  and 
would  have  put  my  hand  to  his  lips,  but  I  held  him 
fast. 

"  How  I  have  wronged  you,  Arden!"  he  murmured. 

"  It  is  over  now,"  I  whispered  in  his  ear;  "let  us 
get  these  strangers  out,  and — and  consult  for  your 
sister." 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

COSTANZA 

HE  spoke  to  Camillo.  The  room  was  cleared,  and 
we  four — the  two  brothers,  Hagedorn,  and  myself 
— were  left  to  a  discussion  so  painful  that,  after  a  few 
minutes,  I  felt  constrained  to  say,  "  We  must  tell  Donna 
Costanza  at  once  what  has  happened.  My  dear  Gae- 
tano,  call  her  down." 

"She  is  with  my  father,"  he  answered.  "The  old 
man's  mind  has  been  shattered  by  these  late  confusions. 
But,  Arden,  you  say  well ;  we  must  be  guided  by  her 
— and  her  alone.  I  will  ask  her  to  join  us." 

"  Stay  a  moment,"  I  said,  as  he  was  leaving  the  hall. 
"  Where  is  that  good  Don  Antonio,  your  chaplain  and 
parish  priest?  " 

"  In  his  own  house,"  answered  my  friend,  coming 
back  to  seize  my  hand  again.  "  He  is  worn  out  with 
attending  on  my  father,  and  has  gone  home  to  take 
a  little  rest.  Do  you  think  we  ought  to  send  for 
him?  " 

"  I  do.  When  he  arrives,  allow  me  a  few  minutes' 
conversation  with  him  in  private,  before  he  sees  Donna 
Costanza.  He  is  the  only  physician  for  such  troubles 
as  these.  No  one  else  can  heal  them  if  they  are  be- 
yond his  remedies.  But  he  will  not  find  it  so — please 
God,  he  will  not." 

The  dear  old  man  appeared  before  long,  looking  more 

360 


CHAP.  XXVI.]  COSTANZA  361 

aged  than  ever,  with  much  grief  in  his  gentle  gray  eyes. 
He  laid  his  pale  fingers  on  mine. 

"  You  wish  to  speak  with  me,"  he  said,  quivering  as 
if  the  breath  of  this  magnificent  June  day  were  too  cold 
for  him.  "  Come  into  the  hall  opposite." 

When  we  were  alone  together  I  unfolded  my  thoughts 
briefly,  with  which  he  agreed,  his  face  a  mask  as  im- 
penetrable as  bronze  or  marble.  I  could  not  guess — it 
would  have  been  an  outrage  to  inquire — whether  the 
Princess  had  taken  him  into  her  confidence.  At  the 
end  he  said  in  a  steady  monotone,  "  I  will  invite  Donna 
Costanza  to  come  with  me  into  the  chapel.  There,  at 
the  foot  of  the  altar,  we  will  seek  light  and  guidance 
from  her  Heavenly  Bridegroom — Sponsus  Virginum. 
Wait  for  me  in  the  Great  Hall  with  the  Princes  and 
Albaspina.  I  return  as  quickly  as  my  errand,  and 
these  aged  limbs,  will  allow.  Courage,  Signor;  do  not 
look  so  distressed.  There  is  a  God  over  all." 

He  mounted  the  stairs  with  slow  and  tottering  feet. 
I  went  back  to  my  place  in  the  Sala  Grande,  and,  hap- 
pening to  observe  that  the  foil  which  I  had  cast  from 
my  hand  was  lying  on  the  floor,  I  picked  it  up  and  laid 
it  on  the  broad  window-sill.  In  doing  so,  mechanically, 
I  unfastened  the  button  which  was  on  it.  My  appre- 
hensions came  in  a  mighty  flood.  Never  did  I  pass  an 
interval  so  agonizing  as  this,  while  I  dared  not  ask  my 
companions  what  they  knew,  or  how  much  they  sus- 
pected. But  Gaetano  had  affirmed  that  his  sister's 
marriage  with  Sforza  was  a  thing  beyond  discussion. 
Why  should  it  be  so?  Motives  of  pride — gratitude — 
or  one  overwhelming  motive  of  shame  ? 

With  straining  ears  we  listened  for  the  old  man's 
coming.  My  heart  sank  as  the  time  drew  out  and  we 
waited  there,  speechless.  Finally  the  door  was  pushed 
back  with  a  feeble  hand ;  I  hurried  to  meet  Don  An- 
tonio, caught  him  in  my  arms  as  he  seemed  to  be  col- 


362  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

lapsing  on  the  floor,  and  led  him  to  the  chair  which 
Don  Camillo  had  occupied  during  our  late  stormy 
scene.  The  priest  covered  his  eyes  with  a  hand  which 
I  could  perceive  was  trembling,  and  while  we  gathered 
about  him  in  consternation,  did  not  speak  or  move. 
There  was  a  portentous  silence. 

Making  what  seemed  a  supreme  effort,  at  last  Don 
Antonio  spoke.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  those  of  the 
younger  Prince,  and  never  left  him. 

"  I  have  come  down,"  he  began  in  his  bird-like  treble, 
so  clear  and  sweet,  "  from  a  great  light — a  great  dark- 
ness— and  I  am  dazzled.  Be  patient  with  me.  Gae- 
tano,"  he  continued,  "  it  was  your  command — not  only 
your  wish,  but  your  insistence — that  Donna  Costanza 
should  marry  this  Tuscan  Count.  What  reason  had 
you?" 

"  Reason,  Don  Antonio  ?  Many,  but  one  was  enough. 
A  girl  of  our  house  had,  willingly  or  unwillingly,  spent 
seven  nights  in  the  mountains,  alone  with  the  man.  Did 
there  need  more  reason  than  that?  The  honor  of  the 
Sorelli  was  my  reason.  True,  he  had,  as  I  thought, 
rescued  her,  and  deserved  a  fitting  recompense.  But, 
had  that  been  all,  I  would  have  given  him  gold — not 
my  sister." 

"  And  you,"  said  the  priest,  turning  toward  me  a 
little,  but  not  removing  his  eyes  from  Gaetano — "  is  it 
your  opinion  that  this  wedding  should  take  place?" 

"How  can  I  answer?"  was  my  impetuous  cry. 
"  Before  all  things,  save  her  honor  and  good  name.  If 
she  must  marry  Sforza,  join  their  hands  first,  then  drive 
a  dagger  through  his  heart." 

"  You  speak  my  very  thought,"  cried  the  raging 
Gaetano,  who  had  now,  as  was  patent  to  the  eyes  of 
all,  given  up  his  sister  for  lost.  "  Let  her  be  his  widow, 
since  he  has  made  her  his  leman." 


CHAP.  XXVI.]  COSTANZA  363 

He  stamped  on  the  floor  in  a  whirlwind  of  fury. 

But  Don  Antonio  smiled,  and  his  tears  fell  fast.  "  Ah, 
you  men,  you  men!"  he  chided,  with  a  heavenly  re- 
buke in  his  accents,  "  how  little  you  trust  in  God !  how 
weak,  you  say,  is  woman!  You  believe  no  more  in 
miracles.  Harken  to  the  latest,  and  go  down  on  your 
knees.  This  child — this  angel — has  passed  through 
the  fire  unscorched — the  smell  of  it  is  not  upon  her 
garments.  What  do  I  say,  unscorched?  She  is  radi- 
ant with  a  glory  as  of  the  sun — virgin  and  martyr. 
Gaetano,  will  you  faint?  Hold  him,  Signor  Arden; 
the  joy  is  too  much." 

I  held  him,  not  less  moved  in  my  own  sudden  light- 
ening of  the  heart  than  he  was,  and  Camillo  sobbed, 
while  Hagedorn  wiped  his  eyes  repeatedly,  murmuring 
I  know  not  what  in  his  German,  but  surely  words  of 
thankfulness. 

"  Now  you  must  brace  yourselves  to  hear  this  mar- 
velous deliverance,"  resumed  the  priest,  "  after  which 
Costanza  shall  spend  an  hour  with  us  all.  But  remem- 
ber how  fearful  has  been  her  experience ;  do  not  allude 
to  it  when  she  is  here.  You  must  know,  then,  that  as 
soon  as  she  was  captured  in  that  cruel  way — her  eyes 
blinded  in  a  sack,  and  strange  arms  about  her — the 
Princess  thought  it  was  Lucera's  doing.  At  the  solitary 
house  to  which  they  took  her  first — " 

"  Le  Pergole — yes,  Don  Antonio — I  can  inform  you 
of  all  that  chapter,"  I  said;  "that  she  asked  again  and 
again  to  see  Lucera  is  true.  But  he  was  a  prisoner; 
they  had  no  communication  together." 

"  So  it  was,  indeed.  She  saw  none  but  Candia  and 
a  young  peasant  who  waited  on  her.  Two  nights  after 
she  was  hurried  off  again  by  strangers.  But  now  the 
young  attendant — Carluccio,  you  tell  me,  was  his  name 
— warned  her,  as  they  rode  up  into  the  hills,  first,  that 


364  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

her  real  captor  was  this  Count ;  and  second,  that  if  she 
touched  any  food  except  that  which  he — Carluccio — 
should  prepare,  her  fate  was  sealed." 

"  Where  is  the  young  man,  that  I  may  thank  and 
reward  him?"  asked  Gaetano,  eagerly. 

"  He  was  here  with  the  others  this  morning ;  you 
shall  see  him  presently,"  answered  his  brother. 

"  The  Princess  now  understood  all.  She  thanked 
him,  and  made  up  her  mind — praying  for  help  to  the 
Madonna — what  she  would  do.  Soon  afterward,  as 
dawn  rose  over  the  high  woods  up  toward  La  Majella, 
her  convoy  was  attacked,  the  banditti  dispersed,  and 
the  Count  appeared  on  the  scene  as  her  rescuer.  But 
she  had  been  forewarned.  He  soon  showed  what  the 
rescue  signified  to  him.  Although  she  begged  him  to 
bring  her  home  without  losing  a  moment,  he  refused, 
pretending  that  the  woods  were  full  of  brigands.  On 
the  same  pretext  he  and  his  men  led  her  away — Candia 
was  a  prisoner  also — to  the  lonely  mountain  cottage, 
where  she  found  herself  a  captive,  with  none  but  the 
old  woman  to  wait  upon  her.  In  that  fearful  place  she 
spent  last  week,  from  Sunday  to  Sunday." 

"Where  was  Sforza  the  whole  time?  "  I  asked. 

"Sforza?  You  mean  the  Count.  He  left  her  some 
hours  to  herself.  But  when  she  would  neither  eat  nor 
drink — the  young  peasant  appeared  no  more — he  threw 
himself  at  her  feet,  poured  out  his  miserable  love, 
which,  he  said,  was  consuming  him,  hinted  that  she 
was  in  his  power — you  can  imagine  the  rest.  But  that 
which  you  never  can  imagine  is  the  answer  she  made. 
*  As  God  sees  me,'  said  Costanza,  '  I  will  touch  no 
morsel  under  this  roof,  nor  take  a  draught  from  your 
hands,  neither  will  I  close  my  eyes  in  sleep.  Take  me 
home  living  if  you  wish  not  to  take  me  dead.'  Then 
she  turned  to  prayer,  and  never  spoke  to  him  again." 

"  But  from  Sunday  to  Sunday  ? "  urged   Gaetano. 


CHAP.  XXVI.]  COSTANZA  365 

"  She  lived ;  she  did  not  die.  Go  on  with  your  tale, 
for  Heaven's  sake." 

"  I  tell  you  the  simple  truth.  Her  martyrdom  fol- 
lowed," said  the  priest,  shuddering.  "  The  table  was 
spread  day  and  night  before  her.  Wines,  cates,  deli- 
cacies were  heaped  among  flowers  to  tempt  her  senses. 
The  Count,  infatuated,  would  not  leave  her  in  peace 
any  moment,  but  raved  and  entreated  and  was  mad  in 
his  wicked  passion  ;  to  what  purpose,  since  One  stronger 
than  he  stood  beside  her  in  that  prison?  Going  once 
or  twice  to  the  spring,  and  there  wetting  her  lips — for 
so  much  they  allowed — this  pure  saint  knelt  the  rest  of 
her  time  in  contemplation,  until  her  jailer  withdrew, 
leaving  to  Candia  the  task  of  persuading  her.  That 
also  failed.  Nay,  more  wonderful  still — you  know 
what  the  people  say  of  Candia?"  directing  his  voice 
toward  me. 

"  That  she  is  a  witch,  a  strega.     It  is  true,"  said  I. 

"  True  or  false,"  he  resumed,  "  she  was  base  enough 
to  join  in  the  plot  to  ruin  Costanza.  And  now  these 
two  women  sat  alone,  up  in  that  solitary  cottage,  the 
mountains  round  them,  day  after  day,  the  elder  tempt- 
ing the  younger ;  while  the  Count  prowled  near  them, 
waiting  for  his  sweet  morsel.  But  Costanza  never  spoke 
to  him  when  he  appeared.  Some  unseen  power  kept 
him  at  a  distance,  so  that  he  dared  not  lay  a  hand  upon 
her.  He  still  hoped  she  might  be  overcome  by  drugs 
or  in  her  sleep.  And  she  slept  not,  but  prayed  hour 
after  hour.  At  length  her  mind — I  do  not  say  wan- 
dered—" 

There  was  a  horrible  pause,  above  which  the  wings 
of  madness  hovered. 

"  But  she  began  to  pour  into  Candia's  ears  the  stories 
of  the  Saints ;  what  things  they  had  suffered,  and  espe- 
cially those  who,  like  herself,  had  given  themselves  to 
death  rather  than  to  shame.  A  whole  day  she  talked 


366  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BooK  IV. 

in  this  strain.  As  night  came  on,  her  voice  grew  silent. 
She  fell  into  a  trance — was  caught  up  into  Paradise — I 
know  not  how  to  describe  the  indescribable.  To  Candia 
it  appeared  that  she  was — dead." 

For  what  might  follow  now,  we  had  no  words.  We 
hung  on  the  lips  of  Don  Antonio.  His  features  had 
blanched  under  the  vision  of  Costanza  dead  in  the  for- 
lorn hovel. 

"  Dead  she  seemed  to  be ;  and  the  ancient  woman 
laid  her  out  on  the  rude  couch,  dressed  as  she  was,  and 
straightened  her  limbs,  and  tried  to  close  her  staring 
eyes,  which  would  not  be  sealed  up,  but  remained 
steady  in  a  great  horror,  filling  the  room  with  their 
light.  The  demon-jailer  came  in,  saw,  and  was  ap- 
palled. His  terrible  rage  who  shall  express?  He 
would  have  struck  Candia,  but  she  took  refuge  behind 
the  dead.  Through  the  clenched  teeth  he  endeavored 
to  pour  some  powerful  restorative ;  the  liquor  drenched 
his  hands  and  fell  on  Costanza's  bosom.  Then  the  hag — 
the  witch,  as  you  call  her — rose  up  and  drove  him  from 
the  room. 

" '  She  is  not  dead,  but  in  a  rapture,'  said  Candia 
now,  feeling  a  sort  of  low  and  obscure  movement  of 
the  pulse  which,  before,  she  had  not  noticed.  Was  it 
life?  was  it  the  ebbing  of  life?  Whichever  it  might 
prove  to  be,  the  sibyl  watched  and  waited,  suffering  no 
one  else  to  approach — a  vulture,  you  will  say,  keeping 
guard  over  a  corpse.  At  all  events,  watch  and  wait 
she  did,  for  thirty  hours — " 

"Good  God!"  murmured  Don  Gaetano,  "what  a 
miracle  is  this!" 

"  Thirty  hours,  I  say,"  went  on  the  priest,  "  at  the 
end  of  which  time  Costanza  moved  her  eyelids,  hitherto 
fixed  as  in  death;  her  breath  came;  and,  on  seeing 
Candia,  she  smiled — you  remember  the  sweetness  of 
that  smile,  Albaspina,  from  the  days  when  she  was  a 


CHAP.  XXVI.]  COSTANZA  367 

child  ? — and  her  first  words  were  these,  '  I  have  been  in 
heaven.' ' 

"Why  not?"  interposed  Hagedorn.  "  It  was  her 
Father's  house  to  which  she  fled." 

"Why  not,  indeed?"  was  Don  Antonio's  reply. 
"  Caught  up  to  Paradise,  I  do  believe,  she  had  seen 
there  all  those  lovely  semblances  of  saint  and  martyr, 
and  knew  them  by  their  names — Agnes,  Cecilia,  Cos- 
tanza,  and  that  blessed  company,  with  One  more  beau- 
tiful still,  who  promised  that  she  should  return  home  in 
peace  and  innocence.  A  banquet,  too,  was  spread 
there,  at  which  she  tasted  heavenly  food  and  drink. 
She  would  willingly  have  stayed  always ;  but  the  great 
portals  opened  to  sounding  music,  and  she  descended, 
and  was  living  once  more,  and  her  fears  had  passed 
away." 

"  You  mean  that  Sforza  abandoned  his  design  ?  "  I 
exclaimed.  "  He  were  a  fiend  blacker  than  I  know 
him  to  be,  had  he  persisted." 

"  He  changed  his  plan  assuredly.  Leaving  all  now 
under  Candia's  direction,  he  betook  himself  to  the 
neighboring  forest,  and  there  waited  until  the  Princess 
had  strength  enough  to  travel.  She  would  not  touch 
their  viands ;  but  a  poor  goatherd  on  the  mountain 
brought  milk  which  kept  her  alive  the  days  that  re- 
mained of  her  captivity.  She  had  now  subdued  Nonna 
Candia  to  her  will ;  it  was  agreed  between  them  that 
Costanza  should  utter  no  syllable  of  what  she  had  gone 
through,  till  the  woman  was  here  to  confirm  her  won- 
derfjjl  story.  You  will  not  forget  last  Monday  night, 
Don  Gaetano,  when  the  Count  brought  your  sister 
home ;  understand  now  the  reason  why  she  has  been 
silent.  To-morrow  Candia  may  be  expected;  she  has 
gone  upon  a  commission  of  her  master's,  which  will  by 
that  time  be  fulfilled.  But  perhaps  you  do  not  require 
any  evidence  from  her  now." 


368  ARDEN   MASSITE  [BOOK  IV. 

He  ended,  and  there  was  a  long  silence.  We  should 
be  happy  later  on  when  our  excitement,  our  gratitude, 
could  find  expression ;  these  things  were  too  much  for 
us,  coming  after  the  events  of  the  last  days. 

"  Thanks  be  to  God,"  said  Gaetano,  rousing  himself 
at  last.  "  Ask  Costanza  to  come  down." 

When  she  appeared  on  the  threshold,  led  by  Don 
Antonio,  we  were  amazed  at  the  intense  paleness  of 
her  cheek.  In  other  things  I  saw  no  change.  Looking 
round,  she  caught  sight  of  me  and  smiled;  but  when 
Don  Camillo  came  forward,  saying,  "  Don't  you  know 
me,  Costanza?  I  am  your  brother,"  she  put  her  arms 
round  his  neck  and  kissed  him.  "  Oh,  I  am  so  glad!" 
she  exclaimed.  "  Welcome  to  Roccaforte,  Camillo. 
How  long  I  have  wished  for  this  day!" 

Her  younger  brother  approached  more  timidly.  But 
she  gave  him  her  hand  with  a  queenly  assurance. 
"  You  will  not  ask  me  to  marry  the  Tuscan  Count," 
she  said  in  her  tranquil  tones.  "  No,  I  see  that  chapter 
is  closed.  I  forgive  you,  Gaetano;  it  was  your  pride 
and  your  affection  for  me  that  led  you  astray." 

What  more  shall  I  write  of  the  evening  which  fol- 
lowed ?  Shall  I  compare  it  to  a  sky  lighted  with  stars, 
one  planet  alone  shining  ruddy  and  menacing  in  the 
wide  ether?  All  our  misunderstandings  were  at  an 
end.  The  brothers  went  up,  leaning  on  each  other's 
arm,  to  their  father's  room,  and  what  passed  I  never 
knew;  but  when  after  a  long  interval  they  mingled 
with  us  again  in  the  Sala  Grande,  I  felt  the  cloud  which 
had  rested  between  them  almost  a  lifetime  was  rolled 
away.  As  we  sat  together  in  the  stillness,  which  the 
drawn-out  monotone  of  the  cicale  in  the  Roccaforte 
woods  did  but  intensify — that  strange,  indescribable 
sound  as  of  a  shrill  wave  that  never  sleeps — I  found 
myself  telling  these  friends,  through  the  clear-obscure, 
what  I  could  not  have  spoken  did  they  see  my  face  the 


CHAP.  XXVI.]  COSTANZA  369 

while — how  I  first  made  acquaintance  with  Sforza,  and 
the  fatalities  that  came  thronging  upon  my  search  for 
him  in  Rome.  They  heard  me  with  a  tender  pity,  not 
so  much  expressed  in  words  as  breathing  like  a  sigh 
at  the  retrospect  of  things  endured  partly,  as  I  could 
not  choose  but  let  them  feel,  for  their  sakes.  I  had  my 
reward  when  Costanza  rose  and  came  to  me  where  I 
was  sitting,  her  hand  ready  to  clasp  mine. 

"  It  was  your  great — great  love,"  she  said  with  ex- 
quisite frankness,  "  your  love  for  us,  Signer  caro,  that 
made  you  this  man's  victim.  Gaetano,  how  shall  we 
thank  your  Arden  ?  We  cannot  thank  him." 

For  one  little  moment — oh,  no  more  than  it  takes  for 
the  heavens  to  open  and  shut  again — I  thought,  I 
dreamed,  that  our  Gaetano  looked  across  at  me  with  a 
kind  of  wistfulness,  and  then  at  his  sister.  Had  he  seen 
the  golden  gates  flash  in  the  empyrean  over  us?  But 
all  he  said  was,  "We  cannot  thank  him,  Costanza. 
Yet  if  he  will  take  our  love,  it  is  ready,  is  it  not?" 

"  Always,"  she  answered  softly.  "  Our  lives  have 
run  together  in  one  stream ;  now  we  shall  not  be 
divided." 

We  said  no  more.  Soon  after  I  was  led  to  my  own 
room,  where  I  had  slept  on  former  visits.  I  paced  it 
the  livelong  night,  up  and  down.  To  take  any  sleep 
was  impossible ;  my  long-agitated  spirits  were  wrought 
into  a  yeasty  wakefulness ;  and  I  traversed  these  ancient 
stones  repeatedly,  which  might,  in  other  ages,  have 
been  soaked  in  blood,  dry  as  they  crackled  under  my 
feet  now.  The  faded  painting  above  me  threw  its 
gloom  into  my  meditations.  Its  crimson  fires  burned 
more  fiercely  within  me  than  on  the  ceiling ;  its  Ajax  in 
tarnished  armor  lifted  his  spear  threateningly.  "  Yet 
Cassandra  has  escaped,  Cassandra  is  free,"  I  muttered 
over  and  over  again ;  "  a  mightier  than  Apollo  has  come 
to  her  deliverance."  Joy  and  grief  were  interfused  in 

24 


370  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

a  bitter-sweet  cup,  which,  all  that  night  through,  I  could 
not  drain  to  the  bottom.  The  star  called  Wormwood 
had  fallen  into  it.  And  I  thought,  as  morning  broke 
over  the  hills,  and  their  irregular  battlements  were 
touched  with  a  waving  golden  line,  of  the  ruddy  Mars, 
looking  down  upon  us  last  night  from  a  heaven  of  peace. 
We  had  still  to  meet  and  vanquish  Tiberio  Sforza. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

ILLA    SUPREMA   DIES 

ANOTHER  of  those  days  such  as  hold  festival  in 
JTJL  earth  and  sky,  one  arch  of  light  bending  to  meet 
the  waters,  the  June  nightingales  answering  from  hill  to 
hollow  in  every  green  wood.  The  blithe  hours  began 
their  dance  in  the  sunshine  early;  old  Roccaforte  put 
on  a  wrinkled  smile,  its  veins  cheered  somewhat  from 
their  sluggish  dream  of  life  by  a  warmth  which  struck 
genially  to  its  stony  heart.  Yesterday's  reconciliation 
threw  over  these  wild  places  an  enchantment  for  us 
who  had  taken  part  in  it — a  floating,  gauzy  brilliance 
that  "played  in  front  of  the  advancing  cloud.  Even  my 
gift,  had  I  such  indeed,  of  the  evil  glance  was  forgotten ; 
I  never  saw  man  sprightlier  than  Gaetano,  as  he  mar- 
shaled us — the  company  that  had  still  to  act  under  his 
direction — to  our  several  stations.  In  his  eyes  the  joy 
of  battle  gleamed.  He  sang,  or  hummed  rather,  be- 
tween his  teeth,  an  air  from  "  Don  Giovanni,"  catching 
me  by  the  hand  whenever  we  met,  stopping  sometimes 
to  look  into  the  courtyard  and  mutter  with  a  short, 
broken  laugh,  "  That  way — that  way  he  will  come!  I 
have  a  welcome  for  him." 

His  restless  gaiety  made  me  feel  downhearted.  "  I 
wish  Gaetano  looked  and  spoke  more  like  himself,"  I 
said  to  Hagedorn,  who  was  observing  him  with  me. 
"These  high  spirits  are  unnatural.  In  our  North 

37i 


372  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

Country,  when  a  man  who  is  by  temper  serious — and  such 
was  the  Prince  always — breaks  into  sudden  laughter, 
sings,  and  jests  merrily,  the  people  call  him  fay.  Do 
you  know  the  word?  It  signifies  approaching  death." 

"  But  you  should  not  say  so,  my  dear  man,"  returned 
Hagedorn,  with  some  impatience,  rebuking  me.  "  Do 
bear  in  mind  your  own  previous  character — it  is  no 
secret  now,  therefore  you  will  pardon  my  plain  speak- 
ing— of  cornix  in  ulmo.  Change  your  note,  I  pray ; 
cease  to  be  the  screech-owl  of  Roccaforte.  There, 
there — you  are  not  offended  ?  I  am  an  old  fool,  if  you 
like,  and  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  my  superstitions." 

"  They  have  been  mine,"  I  said  gloomily,  "  but  let  us, 
as  you  counsel,  refrain  from  all  except  good  words. 
Whose  wheels  are  those  ? "  I  inquired,  breaking  off. 
"  Surely  not  Tiberio's  ?  He  could  scarcely  arrive  from 
the  neighborhood  of  Le  Pergole  so  soon." 

"  They  are  the  wheels  of  Madame  Tarquinia,"  said  my 
companion,  going  to  the  window.  "  What  brings  her 
at  this  time  of  day  ?  Can  she  have  heard  of  our  young 
lady's  adventure  ?  ' ' 

I  struck  my  forehead.  "Why,  she  should  have 
come  yesterday!"  I  cried.  "In  that  hurly-burly  I 
had  forgotten  the  actress.  After  all,  she  was  not 
wanted ;  and  to-day  she  will  keep  Costanza  out  of  the 
way  until  we  have  done  with  Sforza." 

She  was  fluttering  into  the  hall  like  a  great  bird,  her 
plumes  glancing  before  her.  "  My  dear  Englishman," 
she  cried,  "  will  you  ever  grant  me  a  plenary  indulgence 
for  sins  committed?  Late,  late!  I  know  I  am  late — 
missed  my  cue,  and  have  not  spoken  my  patter,  and 
where  in  Heaven's  name  is  the  situation  now?  You 
look  serious — it  is  not  lost,  I  hope.  But  let  me  make 
confession  of  my  sins — rather,  I  should  say,  of  that 
idiotic  Donna  Camilla's.  No,  I  have  not  brought  her 
in  my  carriage;  I  spare  you  that  incommode." 


CHAP.  XXVII.]  ILLA  SUPREMA  DIES  373 

She  was  clapping  me  on  the  shoulder  in  her  motherly 
way,  and  questioning  Hagedorn  with  her  eyes.  Ap- 
parently in  his  calm  looks  she  found  assurance.  "  Where 
is  Costanza?  "  she  asked.  "  First  take  that  load  off  my 
heart." 

I  answered,  "  Costanza  is  at  home,  safe.  Nothing 
but  a  miracle  has  happened,  of  which  you  will  hear  all 
by  and  by." 

"  Thank  God  and  Our  Lady,"  she  cried,  with  an  im- 
petuous burst  of  tears.  "  Oh,  I  have  dreamed  of  her 
every  instant  since  I  met  you — and  in  such  agonies! 
I  must  embrace  her  a  hundred  times — our  angel!  But 
yet,  you  will  demand  my  explanation.  Briefly,  it  is 
this.  When  I  was  on  the  point  of  setting  out  from 
Rome  yesterday,  it  struck  me  that  I  would  call  in  the 
Via  Venti  Settembre,  and  ask  whether  Don  Camillo 
had  left.  I  arrived.  The  doors  were  open,  servants 
scurrying  about;  the  place  had  an  appearance  as  if 
after  a  siege,  with  its  broken  windows  and  general  dis- 
order. The  Prince  had  gone  several  hours  previously. 
But  above,  in  her  own  room,  lay  the  Princess,  enacting 
all  she  knew  of  hysterics — which  was  not  a  trifle.  On 
seeing  me,  she  clutched  me  like  a  vise  and  began  her 
piteous  tale.  Husband  vanished — he  would  not  say 
whither — the  house  invaded  by  soldiers  sent  from 
headquarters  to  take  possession  of  everything — and 
her  dear,  good  father — old  Scanza,  you  know,  a  regular 
piece  of  fire-brick  from  Etna,  hard  as  the  devil! — ex- 
cuse me  for  swearing — in  immediate  danger  of  arrest 
on  account  of  those  Bank  frauds.  So  she  raved,  and 
what  was  poor  Tarquinia  to  do?  Leave  her  I  could 
not.  Reveal  to  her  that  Camillo  was  on  the  Damascus 
road — for  it  comes  to  that,  does  n't  it?  he  repents  and 
you  saints  forgive  him — in  the  supreme  crisis  of  their 
fortunes,  I  would  not.  So  I  told  many  lies — God  will 
pardon  me — and  I  cooled  down  her  abominable  hys- 

25 


374  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

terics,  and  stayed  there  all  night,  and  said  I  would 
come  again  as  soon  as  possible ;  and  I  have  had  no 
sleep,  and  I  am  sure  my  eyes  have  black  rings  round 
them.  And  now,  friends,  let  me  go  up  to  Costanza." 

She  was  away  with  the  speed  of  an  arrow.  Hage- 
dorn  looked  after  the  diva  kindly. 
'  "  In  my  opinion,"  he  said,  returning  to  the  window, 
"  there  's  more  Christian  feeling  on  the  stage  than  off 
it.  Admirable  Tarquinia!  If  ever  I  married,  it  should 
be  a  woman  with  your  big  heart  and  brave  hands. 
But,  Ser  Inglese,  another  carriage  is  entering  at  the 
gate.  Whom  have  we  here?  Not  your  scoundrel, 
surely." 

I  joined  him,  and  from  our  position  behind  the  heavy 
mullioned  traceries  we  saw  a  traveling-carriage  drawn 
by  a  pair  of  long-tailed  black  steeds  turn  round  in  the 
courtyard  and  halt  in  front  of  the  great  staircase.  A 
groom  descended,  undid  the  step,  and  gave  his  shoulder 
to  a  tall,  dark  figure  which  leaned  heavily  upon  him. 
"  Can  you  make  out  who  it  is?"  I  asked  the  German. 

The  tall  figure  stood  up  in  the  doorway,  and  the 
carriage  drew  back.  Then  I  saw  him  distinctly. 
"  Heavens,  it  is  Cardinal  Ligario,"  I  exclaimed,  in  a 
tumult  of  feeling.  "  Did  he  get  my  manuscript?  Has 
he  read  it?" 

I  went  headlong  down-stairs,  almost  into  his  arms. 

"  Adagio — steady — figlio  mio,"  said  the  great  man, 
holding  me  back ;  "  moderate  your  transports.  Who  is 
this?  I  can  hardly  recognize  any  one  in  this  dark 
passage." 

"  I  am  the  English  friend  of  Gaetano's  who  spoke  to 
you  at  the  Villa  Borghese.  Did  your  Eminence  get  my 
papers,  sent  after  you  to  Vienna?" 

He  shook  my  hand  warmly.  "Sent  and  missent!" 
he  exclaimed,  beginning  to  mount  the  stairs.  "  I  did 
get  them,  Signor,  but  not  so  soon  as  I  ought.  They 


CHAP.  XXVII.]  ILLA  SUPREMA  DIES  375 

have  brought  me  back  to  Rome,  and  out  to  Roccaforte. 
You  shall  hear  in  good  time.  But  where  is  Gaetano? 
He  left  me  on  the  frightful  news  of  his  sister's  abduc- 
tion. It  is  a  good  omen  that  I  find  you  here.  What 
has  happened?  " 

I  told  him  in  snatches,  while  Hagedorn,  after  a  flying 
salutation,  went  in  search  of  the  Prince.  "  It  is  well — it 
is  very  well,"  he  repeated;  "for  once  in  this  wicked 
world  the  child's  innocence  has  saved  her.  But  inno- 
cence clad  in  strength!  Ah,  we  have  need  of  that! 
Gaetano,  my  dear  son,  come  to  my  heart."  He  em- 
braced the  young  man,  who  sprang  toward  him  joy- 
ously. 

"  You  have  fallen  among  us  out  of  Paradise,"  said 
he,  in  that  too  high-pitched  accent.  "  Signer  Cardinale, 
my  brother  is  up-stairs  with  the  Duke.  Will  you  let 
me  present  him?  " 

"  Present  Don  Camillo!  Why,  he  is  my  other  son," 
answered  Ligario,  smiling,  "  the  elder,  and  a  prodigal ! 
But  I  thought  he  would  grow  tired  of  their  husks. 
And  so  Scanza  is  down  " — looking  at  me  with  an  intel- 
ligent expression — "and  what  comes  next?  The  Re- 
public? Well,  well — the  Church  sees  all  things  come 
and  go — Urbs  caelestis,  urbs  aeterna!  But  how  about 
this  captain  of  brigands?" 

"  We  expect  him  every  minute,"  said  Gaetano, 
eagerly. 

"  May  he  be  caught  in  his  own  snare!  It  is  a  right- 
eous wish,  taught  us  in  the  Holy  Writ  itself.  But  a 
churchman  should  not  be  present  ad  sanguinis  effu- 
sioriem,"  he  concluded,  in  his  grave,  jesting  manner;  "  I 
will  go  up  to  the  Duke." 

Another  interval,  and  Camillo  joined  us.  We  had 
by  this  completed  our  last  preparations  for  receiving 
Tiberio.  "  He  must  fall  by  my  hand,"  the  younger 


376  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BooK  IV. 

Sorelli  had  insisted.  "  None  but  I  must  have  the 
honor" — he  laughed  frightfully — "of  taking  this  wild 
boar.  When  that  is  done,  Camillo,  you  shall  hang  up 
his  tusks  for  a  trophy,  here,  with  nobler  mementos." 
He  looked  round  the  Great  Hall,  which  glittered,  as  the 
sun  flashed  in  and  out,  with  suits  of  armor,  statues  in 
flawless  marble,  and  the  antlers  of  ancient  stags. 

"  Signori,  to  your  posts!"  cried  Gaetano  all  at  once. 
"  I  hear  a  horse  galloping  up  the  causeway.  You  know 
the  watchword.  On  your  lives  do  not  appear  till  I 
give  it." 

Our  situation  was  now  as  follows :  At  the  end  of  the 
Great  Hall  farthest  from  the  entrance  was  a  raised  dais, 
on  which  stood  the  high  table  at  which  the  Duke  and  his 
most  illustrious  guests  were  wont  to  dine.  During  the 
winter  months,  as  I  described  it  to  Laura  in  my  first 
letters,  the  space  thus  marked  off  was  protected  by 
immense  curtains  of  tapestry,  reaching  to  the  ground 
and  making  this  a  room  in  itself.  On  each  side  of  the 
long  table  were  doors,  now  held  by  picked  carbineers, 
who  had  sent  in  before  them  our  captive  brigands, 
Carluccio,  the  page  Ascanio,  and  Santa  Fiora.  In 
front  of  these,  immediately  behind  the  great  curtains, 
which  had  been  hung  afresh  that  morning,  Camillo, 
Hagedorn,  and  I  were  seated.  The  others  stood  about 
in  various  attitudes  of  expectation.  Gaetano  strode  up 
and  down  in  the  vast  open,  with  steps  at  once  fitful  and 
resolute.  On  the  ears  of  all,  as  they  waited  in  death- 
like stillness,  broke  the  thundering  gallop  of  a  horse, 
ridden  furiously  along  the  paved  ascent  to  the  castle. 

In  my  mind's  eye,  the  form  of  Tiberio  was  visible  as 
he  dashed  beneath  the  old  portcullis.  I  could  read  the 
motto  above  his  head  when  he  passed  through,  "  Sangue 
lava  sangue."  Every  man's  heart,  it  seemed  to  me, 
must  be  throbbing  like  mine,  with  intermittent  faintings. 
Outside  we  could  hear  the  gallop  arrested,  the  swelling 


CHAP.  XXVII.]  ILLA  SUPREMA  DIES  377 

voice  which  called  to  Ser  Angelo,  with  the  steward's 
reply  in  lower  tones.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  in- 
solence of  that  triumph  in  which  Sforza  had  ridden  up 
to  take  possession  of  Roccaforte,  of  Costanza,  and  of 
the  inheritance  of  the  Sorelli.  All,  all  was  now  his  own, 
the  proud  accents  told  us. 

He  clanked  up  the  stairs,  ringing  his  spurs  against 
them ;  flung  open  both  doors  with  a  single  hand ;  strode 
up  to  Gaetano,  where  he  paused  in  the  center,  and 
took  the  Prince  in  his  arms.  I  wonder — and  oh,  had  it 
but  happened !  — that  Sorelli  did  not  strike  him  dead. 

"  Congratulate  me,  brother  mine,"  he  cried,  waving 
his  sugar-loaf  hat,  which  bore  a  long  feather  in  it.  "  I 
bring  you  great  news.  Santa  Fiora  and  all  his  band 
are  taken!  Not  a  man  has  got  off.  Captured,  every 
one!" 

He  would  have  embraced  the  Prince  again,  who  could 
hardly  speak,  but  motioned  him  to  a  little  distance. 

"Who  took  them,  Count?"  he  said  with  a  dead-lift 
effort;  "not  you  in  person?" 

"  No,  not  in  person.  Yet  I  may  say  none  other 
did  it.  Where  is  Costanza?  I  will  tell  you  after- 
ward. Hallo !  "  he  broke  off  suddenly,  "  you  have  made 
some  alteration  in  the  room — put  up  those  big  curtains. 
What  is  the  meaning  of  that?" 

He  was  not  in  any  way  suspicious,  though  surprise 
showed  itself  in  his  voice. 

"  Preparations  for  your  marriage,  Count,"  said  Gae- 
tano, recovering  a  little.  "  The  old  place  wants  bright- 
ening for  so  grand  a  feast." 

"Aye,  does  it?"  laughed  Tiberio.  "Well,  brother 
Prince — you  remember  I  have  royal  blood  in  my  veins,, 
don't  you?  so  I  address  you  on  equal  terms — well,  I  am 
indifferent  how  soon  the  day  dawns.  Every  hour  is 
an  age.  If  it  were  to-day  I  should  be  a  willing  bride- 
groom. This  day,  by  God,"  he  exulted,  half  to  himself, 


378  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

"Santa  Fiora  captured — the  band  rooted  out;  no  fear 
of  those  devils  any  more." 

"And  so  you  will  marry  Costanza  without  delay?" 
said  Gaetano,  inquiringly. 

"  Aye,  that  will  I.  Nothing  to  hinder  now,"  he 
answered,  always  jubilant. 

"  And  you  have  royal  blood  in  your  veins ;  and  I,  as 
you  know,  shall  never  marry ;  and  Camillo  has  no  chil- 
dren. So,  to  sum  up  all,  pass  a  few  years,  and  you  are 
lord  of  Roccaforte;  you  found  a  fresh  dynasty  within 
these  walls." 

"Oh,  all  in  good  time!  How  you  run  apace!"  an- 
swered the  other,  deprecating  with  his  hand  such  an 
accumulation  of  gifts.  "  Who  knows  but  you  will 
marry  yet?" 

As  he  stood  by  the  window  and  the  fiery  sun  shone 
over  him,  he  was  the  image  of  villainy  triumphant  and 
irresistible. 

Then  Gaetano,  drawing  a  step  nearer,  said,  "  Tiberio 
Sforza!" 

"No!"  gasped  the  other. 

"Tiberio  Sforza!"  repeated  the  Prince. 

"It  is  a  damned  lie  of  that  Englishman's,"  cried  the 
wretch,  in  a  frenzy.  But  the  words  had  not  left  his  lips 
when  the  curtains  were  torn  open,  and  a  procession 
emerged  from  behind  them.  Slowly,  for  we  had  been 
told  there  was  still  something  that  Gaetano,  and  he 
alone,  must  undertake. 

One  glance  showed  him  that  the  game  was  up. 
Tiberio,  rooted  to  the  spot  by  amazement,  caught  sight 
of  Ascanio — my  own  eyes  convinced  me  of  that — in 
his  woodland  costume ;  and  a  terrible  rush  of  blood  to 
the  face  vanquished  even  his  ghastly  pallor. 

"  Ascanio  with  you,"  he  shrieked  in  a  voice  from 
which  all  human  expression  had  fled.  "  Ah,  then,  it  is 
the  end — the  end." 


CHAP.  XXVII.]  ILLA  SUPREMA  DIES  379 

A  sound  of  many  tramplings  in  the  courtyard  smote 
on  his  ears.  Looking  out,  he  saw  it  filling  with  soldiers. 
Then,  with  a  stroke  as  of  lightning,  he  seized  the  foil 
which  I  had  left  in  the  window  yesterday,  and  as  Gae- 
tano  plunged  forward  to  lay  hold  of  him,  I  beheld  a 
gleam  in  the  air,  a  cry  followed  it,  the  Prince  fell  to  the 
ground.  Tiberio,  leaping  over  his  body,  made  for  the 
open  door. 

At  the  moment  Candia  appeared  on  the  threshold, 
and  we,  rushing  madly  in  pursuit,  saw  him  fling  her 
down  the  stairs,  and  himself  turn  before  the  on-coming 
soldiery  up  to  the  higher  portion  of  the  castle.  Ascanio 
and  I  ran  together;  but  fast  as  we  hurried,  the  fly- 
ing footsteps  went  in  advance.  They  turned  once  or 
twice ;  the  whole  building  seemed  to  echo  with  sound. 
Behind  us  came  panting  the  armed  men,  who  had 
only  seen  him  as  he  fled  from  them;  on  the  narrow 
ways  there  was  confusion,  jostling,  incoherent  speech. 
Ascanio  and  I  followed  still.  A  long  gallery  opened 
before  us;  at  one  end  appeared  Costanza,  running  out 
from  her  father's  room ;  at  the  other  Tiberio  was  beat- 
ing in  a  door,  that  yielded  suddenly,  and  he  fell  head- 
long. The  soldiers  drove  us  before  them.  We  entered 
— it  was  the  cell  of  the  fratricide,  with  angel  and  demon 
struggling  forever  on  the  vaulted  ceiling.  Its  long, 
narrow  window  stood  open ;  at  the  door  pressed  in  the 
carbineers ;  and  Tiberio,  his  features  black  with  a  storm 
of  passions,  paused  the  space  of  a  second  on  the  para- 
pet, looked  round  at  us,  looked  down, and,  raising  his  arms 
above  his  head,  leaped  head  foremost  into  the  ravine. 

A  cry  of  horror  broke  from  our  lips.  I  was  nearest 
the  fatal  window,  and  I  saw  that  it  had  no  balcony  out- 
side, since  the  day  when  the  great  tempest  carried  all 
away.  Of  Tiberio  not  a  trace,  save  where  some 
broken  branches,  hanging  yet  in  the  air,  had  momently 
stayed  his  fall. 


380  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

But  Ascanio,  rushing  at  me,  doing  his  utmost  to  get 
by  me,  was  crying  aloud,  "  Oh,  I  have  killed  my  dear 
master!  I  am  his  murderer!  For  God's  sake,  for 
pity's  sake,  let  me  go  to  him.  I  will  go  to  him ! "  He 
tore  at  my  hands  in  a  mad  expostulation.  I  held  the 
lad  firmly  embraced ;  but  it  seemed  that  I  must  choke 
him  with  my  ringers  before  he  could  be  wrenched  from 
the  spot.  Then  Costanza,  who  had  seen  these  things 
in  a  white  horror,  came  to  my  relief.  She  bent  down 
and  kissed  the  boy's  forehead. 

"  Come  with  me,"  she  whispered ;  "  you  shall  belong 
to  me,  Ascanio.  Come." 

He  looked  up  into  her  eyes  and  was  fastened  there. 
"  Oh,  my  master,  my  master!  "  he  sobbed.  "  Why  did 
you  betray  your  own  boy?  And  I  betrayed  you! 
Oh,  let  me  die,  Signorina — it  is  so  sweet  to  die!  He 
is  out  there;  his  limbs  shattered.  Let  me  go,  I  say. 
His  last  words — you  heard  them — they  were  for  me!" 

He  went  off  into  a  swoon,  while  Costanza  endeavored 
to  lift  him  from  the  floor;  but  her  strength  was  too 
feeble  after  the  sufferings  of  those  days. 

"  I  will  take  him,"  I  said ;  "  leave  Ascanio  to  me. 
You  will  be  wanted  down-stairs." 

Then  came  beating  on  me  out  of  heaven  the  awful 
tempest,  and  I  remembered  Gaetano  lying  prone  as 
Sforza  leaped  over  him.  "  No,  no,  not  down-stairs,"  I 
stammered ;  "  go  back  to  your  father — back,  I  entreat 
of  you.  Not  down-stairs !" 

"  Something  has  happened,"  she  said,  making  the 
sign  of  the   Cross,  and  she   stopped  and  was  silent. 
"  Now  we  will  go  down  together,"  she  resumed  in  the 
quiet  voice  which  signified  heroic  resolution.     "  Bring 
the  child  where  he  can  be  attended." 

The  soldiers,  when  this  horrible  catastrophe  had  put 
an  end  to  their  pursuit,  did  not  linger  in  the  upper 
galleries  of  the  castle.  As  we  turned  and  were  going 


CHAP.  XXVIL]  ILLA  SUPREMA  DIES  381 

down,  Cardinal  Ligario  passed  out  from  the  Duke's 
apartment,  and  came  toward  us.  Our  silence  hushed 
any  question  he  might  have  thought  of  asking.  He 
took  Costanza' s  arm  and  followed  me  as  I  led  the  way 
with  the  insensible  Ascanio  for  my  burden.  An  equal 
stillness  prevailed  in  the  room  below.  What  had 
thrown  all  these  into  a  stupor  so  absolute? 

I  went  in  by  the  wide-open  doors,  and,  seeing  what  I 
saw,  turned,  with  a  countenance  that  told  the  tale  before 
I  could  utter  it.  I  besought  the  Princess  to  come  no 
farther.  She  had  already  passed  me. 

"  It  is  Gaetano,"  she  said. 

He  was  lying  on  his  back,  Camillo  bending  over 
him,  the  rest  motionless.  I  had  expected  to  see  a  pool 
of  blood  where  he  fell.  There  were  but  a  few  drops  on 
his  cambric  shirt,  open  and  disclosing  the  wound  which 
his  own  foil  had  inflicted,  driven  by  Tiberio's  rage.  I 
laid  Ascanio  on  a  couch;  but  no  one  minded  the  boy. 
Costanza  knelt  at  her  brother's  side,  holding  the  hand 
which  would  nevermore  take  hers.  I  think  he  knew 
she  was  there.  His  eyes  seemed  to  express  that 
knowledge.  But  the  next  moment  they  closed  forever. 
He  was  gone  out  of  our  reach  without  a  word  or  a  groan. 

Another  form  appeared  within  the  doorway.  "  God 
be  gracious  to  us!"  cried  Hagedorn,  "it  is  the  Duke," 
and  he  hastened  to  support  the  old  man,  who  was  tot- 
tering slowly  forward,  his  feet  entangled  in  the  long 
dressing-gown  that  he  wore,  amazement  looking  out  of 
his  dim,  red  eyes,  which  had  lately  been  shedding  many 
tears.  The  Cardinal,  intent  on  whispering,  in  broken 
accents,  what  comfort  he  could  at  a  moment  so  dread- 
ful to  Costanza,  rose  up  and  took  his  old  friend's  arm, 
helping  him  thus  until  they  arrived  at  the  tragic  center 
to  which  all  fa.ces  were  drawn.  The  Duke  paused  like  a 
man  that  has  been  walking  in  his  sleep ;  and  a  striking 
and  sorrowful  group  it  was  on  which  his  gaze  rested. 


382  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

But  he  seemed  not  to  comprehend.  In  a  husky  tone 
he  expostulated  with  Camillo.  "  Children,  have  you 
quarreled  so  soon?"  we  heard  him  say.  No  one  could 
answer;  and  he  went  on,  in  the  same  absent  voice, 
"  Was  not  a  single  act  of  fratricide  enough  in  this  house, 
that  you  add  a  second?  Up-stairs  I  heard  the  great 
wind  raging,  and  men  pursuing  each  other.  I  thought 
the  dark  and  white  angels  of  Conraddino  had  issued 
forth  from  their  dismal  chamber  to  cross  their  swords 
here.  But  you  must  not  quarrel,  children — not  wash 
away  their  blood  in  yours.  It  is  time  our  device  was 
altered — six  hundred  years  is  a  long  time." 

He  was  sunk  into  the  abyss  of  his  melancholy 
thoughts,  and  saw  nothing  beyond  them.  Camillo, 
deeply  affected,  held  Gaetano  in  his  arms,  waiting  for 
Dr.  Mirtillo,  who  could  but  assure  us  of  what  we  knew 
already,  that  we  must  abandon  hope.  The  Princess, 
leaving  that  dear  charge,  went  steadily  up  to  her  father 
and  smiled — to  my  astonished  eyes  it  was  visible — 
smiled  and  spoke  in  his  ear  soothingly. 

"  I  will  take  him  up  to  Donna  Anastagia,"  she  said, 
"  and  come  back.  Gaetano,  forgive  me  if  I  leave  you ; 
it  is  only  for  a  moment,  Gaetano." 

There  was  infinite  tenderness  in  her  gesture  as  she 
led  the  old  man  away. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

MYRTLE,  RUE,  AND  CYPRESS 

THE  Castle  was  now  a  scene  of  varied  lamentations 
and  of  help  sought  that  could  not  avail.  In  my 
charge  I  kept  the  page,  Ascanio,  watching  over  him  as 
he  fell  from  one  paroxysm  of  grief  into  another,  and 
calling  to  my  aid  the  gentle  Don  Antonio  when  I  per- 
ceived the  stripling  would  not  cast  away  his  resolution 
of  self-murder.  He  begged  hard  that  I  would  take 
him  into  the  ravine,  where  Tiberio  had  fallen ;  but  until 
certain  maimed  and  terrible  rites  were  accomplished,  I 
did  not  dare. 

The  military  below,  apprised  by  their  comrades  of 
what  had  happened  in  the  Conradin  chamber,  filed 
round  through  the  woods,  yet  in  their  lustiest  green, 
and,  not  without  difficulty,  clambered  down  to  the 
gulley  which  yawned  at  an  enormous  depth  under  the 
fatal  window.  Let  us  throw  a  winding-sheet  over  what 
they  found  there.  With  such  things  neither  language 
nor  imagination  should  deal.  In  the  rich,  neglected 
mold  they  dug  a  trench  far  enough  down  to  hide 
what  was  left  of  Tiberio  Sforza  from  human  observa- 
tion. As  he  died  by  his  own  act,  with  a  record  which 
to  the  last  line  was  crimson,  not  even  Don  Antonio 
could  venture  to  suggest  that  the  Church  owed  him  her 
funeral  obsequies.  He  was  buried  like  a  dog,  without 
prayer,  incense,  or  holy  water;  nothing  marked  the 

383 


384  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

spot  save  the  trampling  of  the  soldiers'  feet,  as  they 
stamped  the  earth  down  over  him.  Had  he  dashed  a 
red  stain  upon  the  old  walls  as  he  descended  through 
the  air?  They  were  black  with  age,  overgrown  with 
lichen,  and  they  kept  this  secret,  as  they  did  many 
another,  to  themselves. 

Yet,  after  nightfall,  when  Mars  flung  his  purple  ray 
out  of  heaven,  the  lad  and  I  went  in  silence  down  to 
the  heart  of  the  ravine;  we  stood  by  the  newly  made 
grave,  and — I  know  not  in  what  language  of  the  spirit, 
but  as  well  as  we  were  able — strove  to  send  our 
thoughts,  our  very  selves,  in  pursuit  of  the  phantom, 
now  so  strange  to  us,  who  had  shaped  both  our  lives  to 
sad,  abiding  issues.  Without  speaking,  we  became 
friends  as  we  stooped  to  drink  these  waters  of  Lethe. 

"  I  will  follow  you  now,"  said  Ascanio  to  me  that 
night,  "  you  and  the  Princess.  Do  not  be  afraid  for 
me;  I  shall  do  myself  no  harm  now." 

"  You  and  I,  giovane  mio,  and  our  friend  Carluccio, 
will  spend  our  lives  together,  I  hope,"  was  the  answer  I 
gave,  grasping  his  cold  fingers.  "  We  shall  be  happy 
yet,  please  God." 

"And  the  Princess?"  he  asked,  with  a  flicker  of  his 
old  playfulness,  "  shall  we  stay  with  her?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell,  Ascanio.  If  she  says, '  Stay/  we  stay. 
And  if,"  I  concluded  sighing,  "  she  bids  us  go,  we  must 
do  her  pleasure.  Here  or  there  we  belong  to  Donna 
Costanza." 

But  how  would  she  dispose  of  us?  It  was  no  time 
to  inquire.  Gaetano  lay  dead  in  the  Great  Hall,  look- 
ing more  heroic  and  beautiful  than  I  had  ever  seen  him. 
His  brother  was  stricken  dumb  with  sorrow.  Tarquinia 
said  to  me,  after  considering  his  features  attentively, 
"  You  must  be  prepared  for  another  funeral  when  our 
dear  Gaetano  is  gone  to  his  long  home.  No,  I  do  not 
think  the  old  Duke  will  leave  us  yet.  He  has  never 


CHAP.  XXVIII.]    MYRTLE,  RUE,  AND  CYPRESS  385 

understood  anything  that  happened  since  Costanza 
was  taken  away.  I  mean  Don  Camillo.  There  is 
death  in  his  eyes." 

"  Shall  we  send  for  his  wife  ?  "  I  asked  her. 

"  I  have  sent ;  here  is  the  reply  she  makes,"  answered 
the  actress,  producing  a  letter.  "  She  cannot  leave  her 
father  under  the  cloud  that  has  burst  upon  him.  Let 
Camillo  return  to  Rome  when  his  brother  is  buried.  So 
much  for  her.  I  prophesy  that  he  never  will  leave 
Roccaforte  alive." 

"  Now  it  is  you — not  I — that  scatters  ill-omens,"  I 
said,  with  the  troubled  smile  that  seems  to  haunt  great 
calamities,  "  but  I  fear  you  prophesy  truly." 

We  took  Gaetano  down  to  the  mausoleum  which  his 
family  had  erected  in  the  village  cemetery  since  dis- 
posing of  their  palace  in  Rome ;  and,  amid  a  mighty 
concourse  and  lamentations  on  every  side,  we  laid  our 
beloved  within  the  marble  monument — not  far  from 
Renzaccio's  lowly  grave — Cardinal  Ligario  reciting  the 
last  Christian  words,  and  I  in  my  heart  whispering  to 
him,  "  Ave  atque  vale,  frater!  "  I  never  could  have  a 
friend  so  dear  again  while  this  world  lasted.  "  Ave 
atque  vale!  " 

In  a  few  weeks  Tarquinia's  forebodings  were  ful- 
filled. Camillo  had  gone  down  to  his  brother  in  the 
shades.  Before  that  event  happened  my  own  destiny 
took  another  turn.  One  morning  I  received  a  letter 
from  Laura  Winwood,  telling  me  that  my  father  had 
sent  for  her  and  held  a  long  conversation,  of  which  it 
was  her  duty  to  inform  me  without  delay.  My  brother 
had  given  him  a  deal  of  trouble ;  and  now,  feeling  that 
a  new  world  was  coming  in,  with  which  he  sympathized 
as  little  as  he  understood  it,  the  dear  man  asked  me 
whether  I  would  stay  away  from  home  until  he  died  of 
solitude.  If  I  chose  to  return  he  would  put  the  estate 
into  my  hands,  allow  me  to  manage  it  in  my  own  way, 


386  ARDEN   MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

and  look  on,  laudator  temporis  acti — as  one  who  had 
finished  his  part  and  quitted  the  stage.  To  this  what 
could  I  answer? 

It  was  clear,  as  soon  as  I  read  Laura's  epistle,  that 
only  one  answer  would  satisfy  my  father  or  me.  I  did 
not  hesitate ;  but  I  lingered,  with  a  vain  hope  of  some 
miracle,  that  I  knew  was  never  destined  to  take  place. 
I  had  not  undergone  such  tragedies  at  Roccaforte  in  a 
dream  which  would  suddenly  break  off  into  golden 
lights  and  a  happiness  more  than  human.  But  Camillo 
was  in  his  grave,  and  the  Cardinal  had  gone  back  to 
Rome,  and  yesterday  afternoon  I  sought  Costanza, 
where,  in  the  Great  Hall,  her  father's  favorite  resting- 
place,  she  sat  not  many  steps  away  from  him. 

I  had  told  her  the  contents  of  Laura's  letter,  to 
which  she  listened  kindly.  When  she  saw  me,  I  dare 
say  the  color  on  my  cheek  warned  her  of  a  rising 
emotion.  She  pointed  to  a  chair  beside  her;  but  I 
stood,  in  a  half-questioning  mood  with  myself,  a  little 
way  off,  and  at  last  found  a  voice. 

"Donna  Costanza,"  I  began  with  an  effort,  "your 
sense  of  duty  would  teach  me  mine,  if  I  truly  needed 
it.  But  you  will  like  it  better  when  I  say,  as  is  indeed 
the  case,  that  I  never  did  hesitate  after  my  father  had 
written  to  me.  I  am  going  to  England." 

"That  is  right,"  she  answered.  "  Go,  and  may  you 
be  happy.  We  are  each  of  us  striving  to  do  God's 
will — I  in  my  way,  you  in  yours.  The  children — old 
Candia's  Lupo  and  Bice — will  be  my  children  hence- 
forth ;  you  always  desired  it,  did  you  not  ?  And  you 
take  that  bright  Ascanio — rare  in  his  gift  of  loving — 
and  simple  Carluccio — " 

"And  I  leave  you,  Signorina;  and  how  will  my 
heart  not  break?  " 

She  looked  at  me  steadily.  Then  her  glance  stole 
toward  the  aged  figure,  propped  up  in  his  curule  chair 


CHAP.  XXVIIL]    MYRTLE,  RUE,  AND  CYPRESS  387 

amid  cushions,  dignified  as  a  Roman  senator.  Again, 
she  leaned  her  cheek  upon  her  hand — Juliet's  way — 
and  spoke,  as  much  to  her  own  thoughts  as  to  mine. 

"  I  am  only  a  girl,  and  not  deep  read  or  much  trav- 
eled," she  said,  "  and  I  lost  my  mother  early.  So  that 
I  seem  never  to  have  had  any  mother,  except  the  Ma- 
donna. Bear  with  me,  then,  if  I  say  anything  which 
is  not  maidenly;  for  I  have  had  no  one  to  teach  me." 

"  Oh,  Donna  Costanza!  "    I  murmured. 

"  Yes,  for  I  am  going  to  say  something  bold.  Until 
you  came,  Signor  Arden,  I  never  asked  myself  what 
love  meant;  I  did  not  think  of  it.  I  was  willing  to 
marry  Sismondo  when  the  time  arrived;  but,  left  to 
myself,  I  should  have  chosen  some  life  in  a  convent — 
to  be  a  Poor  Clare,  or  a  Carmelite  nun.  From  you, 
and  your  talk  with  Gaetano,  I  learned  that  the  world  I 
lived  in  was  a  sort  of  beautiful  dream.  I  heard  more 
about  the  troubles  of  men  and  women  than  I  had  ever 
imagined;  and  yet,  you  remember,  I  was  doing  all  I 
could  down  there  for  them,"  pointing  to  Roccaforte. 
"  But  a  more  wonderful  thing  happened." 

"What  was  that?"  I  asked,  trembling  in  the  excess 
of  my  great  joy. 

"  I  learned  the  meaning  of  love,"  she  answered, 
smiling  at  me. 

"  But,  Costanza,  you  do  not  mean?  It  is  impossible 
you  should  mean — " 

I  could  go  no  further.     And  still  she  smiled. 

"  It  is  impossible,"  she  answered.  "  You  know  it ;  and 
I  know  it.  We  clasp  hands  across  a  stream  which  we 
cannot  pass.  You  are  of  a  race,  a  religion — how  many 
things  make  it  impossible,  dear  Arden?  This  makes  it 
impossible,"  she  said,  glancing  yet  again  toward  the 
slumbering  figure.  "  We  are  as  ghosts  in  this  ancient 
house — the  last  of  the  Sorelli ;  with  us  it  will  crumble 
on  the  mountain  side.  But  do  not  grieve  for  me;  as 


388  ARDEN  MASSITER  [BOOK  IV. 

neither  do  I  for  you.  You  and  I  have  passed,  I  some- 
times think,  as  I  sit  here  alone,  into  a  world,  an  atmo- 
sphere —  I  know  not  how  to  call  it  —  but  to  something 
beyond  earthly  marriage  —  into  a  light  where  all  these 
differences  fade  away.  You  will  go  home;  and,  were 
I  perhaps  as  other  girls,  I  should  tell  you  to  make 
Laura  your  wife,  to  forget  Costanza,  to  let  this  be  all 
as  a  dream.  I  do  not  tell  you  that.  I  say  to  you 
rather,  hope  in  the  good  God  who  has  taught  us  both 
what  love  means,  and  what  is  its  great  price.  And 
now,  Arden,  go  from  me.  But  yet,  in  that  other  world, 
we  shall  be  always  meeting." 

I  held  her  hand  one  moment,  no  more  ;  and  I  left 
her,  alone  with  her  great  grief,  alone  with  her  noble 
thoughts  —  the  old  man  slumbering  like  a  child,  who 
was  henceforth  to  be  her  inheritance. 

In  an  hour  we  see  the  last  of  Roccaforte.  My  com- 
panions and  I  begin  our  journey  toward  England  this 
night. 

And  in  my  ear  the  lovely  Sophoclean  lines  are  mur- 
muring, which  I  trust  bear  a  promise  for  her  and  for 
me,  in  that  other  world  where  we  shall  surely  meet. 
Listen  to  their  music  : 


XaZ/j',  u  A'f/fivov  iredov  a 
Kai  fj.'  evnTioia  irsftipov 
ev&'  f]  fj.ryd2.il  Molpa  KO/JLI^ 
•yvufj.7)  re  Q'duv, 
6f  ravr 


